


The Problem With Children

by JinkyO



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Boypussy, Discussion of Abortion, Domestic, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bond, Mpreg, Nesting, Omega Verse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pregnancy, Romance, Translation Available, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is an Alpha in rut. Harold is an Omega, passing as a Beta.  What happens next will change their lives forever!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chinese translation by [papesse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/papesse) available here: <http://www.mtslash.net/thread-208346-1-1.html> (updated link)  
> ____________________
> 
> Do you create, listen to, or just plain ol' enjoy POI podfic? [ if so, I invite you to check out a couple of new POI Podfic projects taking place right now.](http://superjinkyo.tumblr.com/post/167036960743/calling-all-poi-podfic-fans)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some dreams are destined to fail, and some secrets are never meant to be shared.  
> For John Reese, an aging alpha who has spent most of his adult life in the line of danger, the fact that he's still alive should be enough. But a workplace relationship with a willing omega reignites his primal urges, and soon, John will have to choose between his dreams of a quiet retirement with a mate and pups, and the suicide mission that is his life now.
> 
> Beneath the veneer of modern society lies the true order of civilization.  
> Alphas are born to mate and Omegas, male and female, are made for breeding - no matter how rich or brilliant. It wasn't so long ago that Omegas where relegated to the home while Alphas and Betas shaped the world. Harold Finch grew up in that old world and knows first hand what lies in store for a fertile Omega. For years Harold has used technology as a shield, but Mother Nature plays by her own rules, and not even the Machine can stop her.

The harsh mechanical buzz and whir jolted John awake. Instinctively, he reached under the pillow for his weapon, and as he curled his fingers under the handle, the rich scent of fresh coffee beans wafted through the room to temper the loud grinding noise. It took a few seconds for his sleep muddled brain to connect the noise and smell to the memory of the night before, but once the circuit was complete, he slid his gun back into place and relaxed down on the cushions with a smile.

The kitchen went quiet for a few minutes, then he heard the running water, the scratch of coffee into the filter, the two beeps signaling an extra strong brew. John had a brief thought that this would be a good time to get up, take his turn in the bathroom, and come out to a hot cup of coffee. While he contemplated the idea of leaving his warm blanket cocoon, the sizzle of bacon hitting a hot pan filled the room. Hell yes, today was going to be a good day.

John’s muscles protested as he stretched his long arms and legs over the arms of the couch. It was easier to blame the soreness on how late they’d worked last night than it was to admit that his best kneecapping nights might be behind him.

He swung himself up to sit with a groan; the change of angle only intensified the aches. John braced his forearms over his thighs and dropped his head, back arched in a slow stretch. Time was catching up, he thought, but he probably still had a few good nights left in the tank.

"I wondered how long you were going to stay out here playing asleep."

John rolled his shoulders back and raised his head at the soft teasing voice. A gentle smile curved his lips. "Morning, Joss."

"Mmhm. I’m going to start charging you rent," she teased, returning his smile as she crossed the living room with two mugs of coffee in her hands. She was bundled in her house robe, her hair tucked under a bright pink silk scarf, and her face free of makeup and radiant. Even at the crack of dawn, Joss Carter was beautiful.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, as she handed him one of the mugs.

The blanket was pooled around his waist and John grabbed the trailing end to clear a spot for her to sit next to him on the couch. "Hamburger comes to mind. You?"

"Better. But then again, I’m not the one who chased a perp out a window and on to a dumpster," she chided.

John closed his hands around the warm mug and grinned. "It was only one floor down."

Joss arched an eyebrow in reproach. "You should have taken Taylor’s room so you could stretch out. I don’t know why you always scrunch yourself on this couch."

"Taylor’s room is upstairs," he said simply and took a sip of his black coffee.

"And?"

"And your room is right there," he said, pointing his mug towards her door.

"That is never gonna’ happen."

"Why is that?"

"Because as cute as you are, John, you and I both know that two Alphas together never work out. Trust me, I tried it with Paul."

"Do you ever think about trying it again?" he asked quietly.

"It? Sure, And when I’m ready, I’m going to find myself a sweet little omega who knows how to brew a strong cup of coffee," Joss said with a rich laugh as she relaxed against him.

John curled his arm loosely over her shoulders and leaned in, lingering a bit when he caught her light scent. "And pups?"

"Now that Taylor’s off to college, I think about it sometimes. Then I come to my senses." Joss raised her cup for another sip and then stopped. Her brow knotted in confusion. She cocked her head back and gave him an incredulous stare. "You’re in rut," she said bluntly, amusement bubbling just underneath the words.

John pulled back, his high cheekbones spotted with color. He turned his cup up for a long drink. It had been years since his last full blown rut; his regimented military life, and currently, his work with Finch and the numbers, had tempered his cycles, but there was no denying the signals. Despite the long lull, he recognized the onset of pre-rut.

Joss took his silence for confirmation. "Do you have something lined up?" she asked delicately. "Zoe?"

"Married. For real this time," John mumbled.

"I didn’t get an invite!"

"Me either, " he said with a wry smirk. "Over the summer, the weekend barista at La Columbe."

"Daaamn! Now that’s how it’s done! Maybe this is your body’s way of telling you it’s time to hang up the suit, John. You know, break type and go find yourself a young omega."

Like Joss, John also knew from experience that alpha/alpha relationships were bad news in the long term. He’d tried to make things work with Zoe, but eventually their strong wills got in the way. In his more fanciful moments he liked to think that he could make a go with Joss. After working together so long, he’d come to trust her with his life and he knew she felt the same way about him. She knew him, in part, just as well as Zoe had.

And then there was Dr. Iris Campbell, young enough still, very pretty, slender but sturdy, and open in a way he hadn't experienced since Jessica. They'd been seeing each other casually for a while now. She'd given him plenty of hints that she was interested in pushing their relationship further and that would mean he'd have to tell her the truth about who he was and what he really did for a living. Neither of these were truths he was willing, or able, to share with her yet. For the time being, he couldn't see much for them beyond their welcome, but chaste, friendship. Over the last few weeks she'd made it clear that friendship might not be enough for her. Iris was absolutely everything John should want in a mate: attractive, level-headed, fertile, and, despite his best efforts to keep her at arms length, more than willing. 

John sat his empty cup down and slumped back against the couch. "I can find somebody if it comes to that."

"It’s not rocket science, John. Alphas and Omegas figured this out back in the caves and you’re in for a hellish week or three if you don’t..." Joss’s voice dropped off. She pursed her lips for a moment and then sat her mug next to John’s, her frown deepening. "Who triggered you?"

John paused slightly and pushed back his first thought. He shrugged. "I’m not sure. I may have picked up on a stray omega in pre-heat."

"Nearly fifty years old and going into rut, what’s wrong with you!"

"Fifty is the new forty, they say."

"They lie," Joss said with a chuckle. Her bare lips and plump cheeks upturned, she held her mirthful expression for a moment, even as her dark eyes held on to the truth. "They lie about a lot of things."

John didn't need to ask. He circled his arm over her shoulder and bundled her in against him. "Do you have time for breakfast?" he asked softly, resting his cheek against her silk headscarf.

"Are you cooking?"

"If it knocks a few bucks off the rent."

"Oh, no," she said as she pushed off of him. "You have a bed, and a coffee maker, and a bathroom where you can leave the seat up all you want. You have a home of your own, John. Use it."

John felt a cool pang of disappointment when she stood. He still had Riley's apartment in Queens, and the Library too if he wanted a good night's sleep. Joss' couch wasn't comfortable, but she was and that's why he spent more than a few of his nights curled up on its scratchy cushions.

"Go put some clothes on," she said as she walked back to the kitchen for a refill, then stopped. "And shave. When's the last time you shaved, John?"

He ran his hand over his jaw and tried to judge it. He's spent Sunday night in the Library with Harold. Monday afternoon they got a new Number; that had been a two day job in Brooklyn. Wednesday... Wednesday he'd slept until the Machine sent him a new name, an address, and a three hour countdown clock. That was last night's job: a dying millionaire with a private organ harvesting crew. "That bad?"

"Not bad. Raggedy. Either trim it up or shave it off. After you get cleaned up we can have breakfast like civilized folks."

John waited until Joss disappeared into the kitchen before he swung his blanket over his shoulders like a cape and stood. His body still ached, but moving helped. He scooped his phone from atop his folded clothes and checked for news from Harold or the Machine. The phone had been silent through the night so John was surprised to discover a missed call from Harold. He quickly called back and Harold picked up on the first ring.

"Mr. Reese?"

"Is everything okay, Finch?"

"It's under control. Something come up overnight. I wasn't certain of your plans so I sent out a back-up call. Root was able to attend to the matter."

"A number?" John asked tightly.

"A false alarm, as it turned out. Your former employers can be surprisingly efficient at times."

"What?"

"We got a number, but just as Root and I were planning our intervention, the New York Police Department swooped in and arrested our number. Based on a tip they received from the number's hired hit man, apparently."

"You and Root went out on a job?"

"Well, someone had to."

"I thought we discussed this?"

"Don't be silly, John. I was driving the get-away car; the danger was negligible."

"Where are you now?"

"Back at the Library researching this morning’s number."

"Now? You should have called me!"

"There was no need, Mr. Reese, and there’s no hurry now. Give Detective Carter my regards and I’ll see you when you arrive."

"I’m on my way in now," John said and ended the call. His skin prickled at the idea of Harold going out on numbers without him. It was an irrational annoyance; Root had proven herself trustworthy time and time again. Still, it unnerved John just how deeply she’d moved into Harold’s daily routine.

He chalked it up to the months they lost while living under the Machine’s aliases. Detective Riley and Professor Whistler had more missed connections than met, and while John was off solving crimes, Root slipped into his place by Harold’s side.

Rescuing Shaw from Greer and rebuilding the Machine had taken up even more time. Harold and Root worked side by side for close to a year, while John watched from the periphery. He had a role to play; Shaw had to be looked after, and while Harold and Root rebuilt the Machine, they, along with Lionel, Joss and her FBI connections, along with Root’s hackers, brought down Greer’s organization from the inside.

They’d saved the world without the world ever even knowing.

The numbers started up again soon after Greer was eliminated. John had hoped the numbers, and the mission could lead to things returning to normal between himself and Harold, but it was slow going so far.

John grabbed his clothes and took the stairs up to Taylor’s bathroom. Despite his answer to Joss earlier, John had already claimed use of Taylor’s room. Unlike Joss’ flowery toiletries, John recognized most of the things on the shelves up here. His shirt and suit were filthy from last night. He’d have to wait until he got back to the library and got brought up to speed on the Number before he could shower, shave, and change. 

Ignoring his scraggly beard growth for now, John brushed his teeth and took a quick bird bath before he shook the wrinkles out of his suit and got dressed. In under ten minutes he was back downstairs to make his goodbyes.

"Next time, and I’ll cook," he said as he snagged a strip of bacon from the platter on his way out the door.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John made it across town in record time and slipped into the Library unnoticed. He picked his way through the cast off books that littered the lower lobby, across to the wide marble stairway leading up to Harold’s desk. He could hear their muffled voices: Root’s musical cadence followed by Harold’s faint response in a familiar back and forth. John sprinted the steps two at a time. Bear sprang from his bed and greeted him at the top landing, just in time for the punchline.

"And Heisenberg answers —No, but I know EXACTLY where I am!"

John caught his hand in Bear's soft fur as he watched from the gate. Harold’s mouth curved into a smile, then wider, and then the sounds of his chuckle filled the workspace and echoed down the short hallway to reach John.

“I did warn you,” Root said, smiling across the desk at Harold.

Bear dropped his head against John's leg while his tail banged against the gate in appreciation of the head scratches. Harold’s laughter cut off short as he and Root turned at the sound.

"Well, look what the dog dragged in," Root needled. "Nice beard."

Harold chastised her with a slight wave of his hand, even as his face registered his full dismay at John's disheveled state. "Good morning, Mr. Reese. I trust your evening was... restful," he said, stumbling over the words.

"Are you asking me how I slept, Finch?" John teased in reply, recalling Finch’s line about Joss.

"Of course not, Mr. Reese. Your personal life is just that. Anyway, I'm glad you could join us," Harold said sharply then turned back to his monitor and punched in a line of code to bring a photograph on screen. "This is our new number."

"Why don’t you give me the rundown," John said as he walked towards the desk, cutting through the awkward greeting. He nudged Root to the side to stand behind Harold’s chair and caught the sharp flair of her scent as he leaned over Harold’s shoulder.

Harold rattled off the details. "Guillermo Torres, 27, recently released from Rikers Island after serving a two year sentence for attempted aggravated assault."

"Do you have any theories so far? You think he might be planning to finish the job?" John asked, filling himself with Harold’s peculiar and welcomely familiar non-scent. From the corner of his eye he saw Bear take up an alert stance on the other side of Finch’s chair.

"That’s less clear," Root said. "His victim died last year, during Samaritan’s purge. Torres had gang affiliations, but he’s been clean since he got out."

"Mr. Torres works as a line cook at Thighs & Fries. Perfect attendance record-"

"Until today," Root finished. "According to his phone GPS he’s still at home."

"Family?"

"He lives with his girlfriend, Luz Marie Ocasio, in Hunt’s Point. I haven’t been able to track her phone yet but I was able to confirm that she’s also a no call - no show to her job at the Fulton Fish Market."

John took in the information and began forming his plan. The first step was to check out Guillermo’s apartment, maybe they’d get lucky and find a clue to lead them to the young man or the girlfriend. "Get me the address and I’ll get eyes on him."

Harold answered with a pointed nod towards John’s wrinkled shirt and suit. “No need to draw more attention than necessary.”

"Okay. Give me fifteen minutes to change. Then I’ll look for Guillermo." John was half way down the stacks when Root called to him.

"You should keep the beard."

"Why? You like it?" John tossed back as he unhooked a spare suit from the rack.

"Absolutely not, but –" Root began until she stopped short in a pause that was followed by a more genial, "but it would save some time."

John snorted as he carried the suit to the back crash room. He took a quick shower and gave his beard a once over with a pair of trimming scissors. He'd shave after this job. Damp hair quickly styled and dressed in a new suit, John emerged from the stacks a few minutes later.

"Miss Shaw won’t be in until later. Perhaps Root should go along?" Harold suggested.

"It sounds pretty straight forward, Finch. I can handle this,” John said as he refilled his primary and back-up weapons.

Root sat opposite Harold at the desk and watched John with open amusement. A smirk played on her lips as she glanced over at Harold and then up to John. “Why don’t you take Harry with you? He spends too much time in this library. And,” she purred, having obviously overheard part of his conversation with Finch earlier, “if he’s not allowed to come out and play with me, the least you could do is take him.”

John’s eyes narrowed as he tucked his gun into the holster. She’d meant it as a barb, but in truth, some downtime with Finch could be just what the doctor ordered. He doubted Guillermo was at home, so this trip was surveillance only.

"I might need a getaway driver,” John said after exhaling. “What do you say, Finch? Are you up for a trip to the Bronx?"

“Will that keep the two of you from each other’s throats?”

John’s quick look of contrition mirrored Root’s. “All of us have probably spent too much time in here together,” John murmured by way of apology.

Root acquiesced and slid back down to her workstation. “I’ll be here for the rest of the day if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” John said quietly. He straightened his jacket. “I’ll check in when I get to Guillermo's.”

“That wasn’t a no, Mr. Reese.” Harold pushed back from the desk and stood. “Detectives Fusco or Silva are available to Miss Shaw should we get another number,” Harold instructed as he walked to the coat rack, Bear protectively close to his heels. “Afliggen. We’ll be back soon,” he said gently and brushed his hand over Bear’s head.

“Got it under control, Harry. See you two later.”

*

  
They were twenty minutes out on the FDR before Harold closed up his laptop. “I suppose this is the part where I tell you that I’m available if you ever want to go out for a beer. Though, I’d prefer tea if I’m leading this outing.”

“I’m fine, Finch,” John said tightly and gripped the steering wheel.

“No, you’re not. Whatever is going on between you and Root needs to stop.”

“What do you think is going on between us?”

“I’d hoped a return to the Library would give all of you the room you needed, but I think further measures may be in order.”

“It’s nothing, Finch. Root and I are adults, we can get along.”

“But you aren’t. That’s the problem, John. I count on you to be the reasonable one and something has obviously upset that balance.”

John kept his eyes on the road. He knew exactly what was off balance: his hormones, his place in Harold’s life now —but he’d be damned if he’d ever say it out loud. Maybe Joss had a point, maybe it was time to start thinking about a life beyond the numbers, beyond Harold.

“You’re probably right, just a little too much together time,” he conceded.

“How do we remedy that? Root and I are still integrating the rest of Samaritan’s functions into the Machine’s algorithms. It would be impractical for us to...”

“I know,” John snapped. “Root is essential to the operation right now.”

“John, I didn’t mean...”

“It’s okay, Harold,” he turned to look at his partner for the first time during the drive and offered, what he hoped, was a reassuring smile. “I understand.”

And he did. He could either get on board with this new order of things, or move on. The weight of understanding, and Harold’s familiar warm scent, agitated now, settled over John. They continued the ride in silence and crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx.

The neighborhood was near deserted when they pulled up. It was mid-morning, the kids off to school and their parents at work. John parked one street over and relinquished the steering wheel to Finch. “I’ll take a look around. If anything goes off plan I’ll call.”

“I’ll be ready.” Harold slipped his ear wig in. “Be careful, John.”

John gave him a wink, then, after a quick check up and down the street, he took off along the sidewalk to the house backing Guillermo's. The driveway was empty and the house quiet. John entered through the front gate and sneaked along the side of the house to the back yard. He could have done without the chain link fence separating the properties, but, with a slight running start he was up and over it in under a minute.

Guillermo's house was quiet too. His cherry red Chevy Camaro sat parked in the driveway. John drew his weapon and approached the back door. He peered through the flimsy kitchen curtains then rattled the door handle. The back of the house was clear so John moved around to the side door.

"Are you the police?"

John spun around at the sound of the voice. A short hedge separated Guillermo's house from his neighbor to the left, from which, a young boy watched him intently.

"My abuela called you hours ago. What took so long?"

"It's been a busy morning," John said, holstering his gun before he flipped his jacket back to show his badge. "Detective Stills. What's your name?"

"Are you gonna bust out the windows? My abuela said all the doors were locked and that's the only way you're gonna be able to get in."

"Your grandmother tried to get in? Why?"

"'Cause tio had to be up early this morning."

John tried to follow along with the boy’s logic. "And they were making too much noise?" he asked as he pointed to Guillermo's house.

"No, just the baby."

"There's a baby in there?"

"Yeah, but it's quiet now."

"Is your abuela home?"

The boy clammed up.

"Did she see anything when she came over?"

"No. That's why the baby was crying, 'cause nobody's home."

John glanced at the seemingly empty house behind him then back to the boy. He dropped down on a knee so that he was at eye level with the child. "Listen, buddy, I need you to go back in the house and stay put until your Grandma comes home. Will you do that for me?"

"Are you gonna' bust out the windows?"

"Maybe, but I hope not. Get inside, okay. You can watch me from that window," John said with a reassuring smile as he pointed to the second story of the boy’s house.

"Okay, but... don’t tell my abuela I was outside."

“Our secret,” John said solemnly. He waited until the boy turned back towards his house before he contacted Finch.

"Did you get that?"

"Indeed, but I don't have any information on a child," Harold answered. John could hear the frantic typing in the background.

While he waited for more intel, John went back around and picked the lock. The closed up scent hit him full force as he stepped into the kitchen. A pound of warm ground beef sat out on the counter along with a box of macaroni and cheese and a can of tomato soup. They'd left in a hurry.

John moved on through to the living room. A daytime soap opera played on mute. Yesterday’s mail lay neatly on the coffee table. A phone, presumably Guillermo's, sat on top.

Leading with his gun, John eased open the nearest door and found himself in a tidy bedroom. He pushed the door further until it made heavy contact with something behind it and bounced back. That something was a wooden crib and inside lay a sleeping little pup, his thumb in his mouth.

"Mr. Reese?"

"I've got him," John whispered. The poor kid had probably cried himself out, miserable in his soaked diaper and hungry. He scanned the room and found an unopened package of disposable diapers under the crib. Tossing them onto the made bed, he went to the bathroom next and returned with a wet cloth and a dry towel. He laid the supplies on the bed before he scooped the baby out of the crib. Holding him securely away from his suit, John transferred him to the towel and began to change the diaper.

"Male, maybe six months old." He kept his voice low as he relayed the information to Finch. The baby was awake now, gulping in heaving breaths as he prepared for another round of crying. “Shhh, little guy, I’m going to take care of you,” John murmured, carefully cleaning the baby with the warm cloth before he fitted on a fresh diaper.

"I checked Guillermo's social media accounts again. That's Eduardo Torres, Guillermo's nephew. The pup’s mother left for Arecibo to visit family last week."

"And Uncle Guillermo is babysitting?" John asked as he swaddled the baby in a light blanket.

"Who or what ever happened to Guillermo, our perpetrators didn't come into the house, and they didn't know about the child."

Reese picked the baby up and bounced him gently, shushing the little thing’s pathetic, hoarse cries.

"The child’s mother is scheduled to return on Monday. Until we find his aunt and uncle, Eduardo will be better off with us," Finch said.

“Agreed,” John said as he transferred the boy pup to his hip. “Bring the car around, Harold. Let’s get this little one back to the library and then we can regroup.”

He tossed the diapers into a bag along with a stack of neatly folded onesies and then left the bedroom to search the rest of the house. The abandoned cell phone and unopened mail went into the bag. The empty house held no obvious clues as to the fate of the adults, but John did find two cold bottles in the refrigerator, and three cans of formula in the cabinet. He added the food to his bag but took a moment to unscrew the cap off of one of the bottles and set it in the microwave to warm for the ride back into the city.

When he was finished, John carried the baby and his bag of supplies out the back door, and jiggled the lock into place behind him. He gave the little boy in the window next door a thumbs up as he walked down the driveway to the front of the house to meet Finch.

 


	3. Chapter 3

John kept the pup with him as he climbed into the back of the town car. Lacking a car seat, he buckled the seat belt over his chest and strapped the baby to his body. Once the little thing was secured, he gave Harold the signal to drive. He cradled the baby in his arm and fumbled through the bag for the warmed formula. Soon the hungry pup was feeding with deep, greedy, face-scrunching draws on the bottle.

"Slow down, baby boy," John cooed, pulling the nipple away for a moment so the baby could catch his breath. "There’s plenty here. Take your time."

"I suppose our first stop should be a supply run? It’s been a while since we’ve stolen a baby."

John glanced up and caught Finch’s eyes watching him in the rear view mirror. "This is my first. Lelia was all yours, Finch."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Reese, we’re going to need food and diapers, and a safety seat. Not to mention-"

"We just need to get back to the library. I found enough to get us through the night. Best case scenario, we find our number soon, otherwise, I’ll pick up provisions later."

Best case scenario for more than a few reasons. The adrenaline high of the search was wearing off and soon, everything the rush had overpowered would come creeping back: the slow testosterone escalation, a pronounced disposition towards aggression, and the unrelenting ache for a warm, wet, bed mate. He hadn’t figured on caring for another alpha’s pup and the sooner they could return the baby to his family, the sooner John could take a discreet break from the numbers and ride out his rut phase in private.

The bottle and car ride back to Manhattan soon settled the pup. He fell asleep in John’s arms which gave John a chance to look the boy over. "He’s healthy enough," he said, darting his eyes towards the mirror. "Clean and well fed, just missing his mama."

"You said Guillermo and Luz were forced to leave the house in a hurry. Why wouldn’t they take the child?"

"I don't think they planned to leave. I found his phone but no car keys, so it looks like someone caught Guillermo by surprise. Leaving the kid behind was probably the safest play," John said as he brushed his finger’s through the baby’s soft, dark curls.

"So we have to figure out who that someone was."

Finch guided them back to the library without incident. Once they were inside, John led the way upstairs, determined to find a crack in this case.

The empty work room smelled of steak and fries from The Grand. Bear’s lead was missing. Root’s annoying ‘Hello Kitty’ screen savers played on the monitors while the computers hummed away. There was no telling how long Root and Shaw had been gone or how soon they’d return and John was grateful for the respite.

Reluctantly, he handed the baby off to Harold in order to scavenge the library for materials to craft a makeshift crib. The press-board sock drawer from the crash room, padded with said socks and lined with two of John’s undershirts, seemed like a good start. He spent a few minutes neatly stuffing the shirts, smoothing the socks as he went. He secured the seams with a strip of duct tape and, after assuring himself that the home-made padding was a snug fit, he pushed up off the crash cot and carried the rig-up back to the work room.

Inside, Harold was still holding the pup, bouncing him gently and murmuring soft assurances. He had a natural affinity for children; John had noticed it with Lelia, and once or twice when Harold worked on his Machine. John knew that betas, like Finch, weren’t driven by the same primal urge to reproduce that affected alphas and omegas, nonetheless John scented the change to the air and felt his blood rising in response.

The smell of recently devoured grilled steak and fried potatoes had dissipated somewhat, only to be replaced by the pup’s sweet scent and something else, oddly familiar and deeply disconcerting. It was entirely possible that Shaw had dragged the new scent in with her and his own compromised senses were only just now picking up on it. Or it could be a direct result of the pup himself. Though he’d gotten the basics of the effects of alpha, beta, and omega hormonal shifts during boot camp, John had limited practical experience when it came to babies. And, after nearly half a lifetime of suppressing his rut cycles through action, exercise, yoga, and sheer force of will, little actual experience with his own wildly fluctuating hormones.

Watching Harold now, as he smiled down at the little bundle and pressed a kiss to the pup’s head before lifting it to his shoulder to resume the slow walk around the desk, John envied the man his simple beta physiology.

"How’s the progress?" Harold asked, startling John out of his reverie.

"Hmm?"

"The crib, Mr. Reese. How much longer? We have work to do."

"Right," John sputtered. "Almost done." He left the rough bed on the leather couch then walked to the audio room for more supplies. A few minutes later he returned with a small table to use as a base for the crib and storage for the kid’s supplies. Working quickly, he set up a quasi-nursery in the still empty space opposite the desk where the old rolling glass board used to stand.

"We’re good to go," he said and stepped aside as Harold brought the sleeping boy over. John’s face softened as he watched Harold gently arrange the child in the sock-drawer crib. "I never thought I’d see this again," he whispered, the pup’s clear and clean scent stronger now.

Harold straightened up, backing himself into John’s casually outstretched hand. "Me either, Mr. Reese. He’s so tiny," he said softly. "We’ve got to get this little one back to his family."

"We will," John said softly, fighting back a sudden rush of hormonal madness in order to concentrate on Finch’s words.

 

Finch gave a short nod and moved his warmth from John’s hand as he walked back to his computer. "Let's start with Guillermo's phone and see if we can generate some information."

John stepped away from the sleeping baby and retrieved the bag of supplies from the house. "While you work on that," he said, digging out the cellphone, "I’ll tap into the Bureau’s system for the traffic cam feeds."

"Does Detective Carter know you’ve poached her FBI credentials?" Harold asked, shifting his keyboard over to make room for John at the computer next to him.

"She wouldn’t expect anything less, Finch," John answered with a roguish grin. He pushed Root’s dainty chair out of the way and pulled the larger wooden chair up to the desk.

As the new head of the NYPD-FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force, Joss Carter had become their lead agent for the Relevant Numbers in the city. While she helped the recently re-organized national security operations, they benefited from her access to resources that still remained outside of their reach.

After the fall of Samaritan, their first priority had been to restore and repair the Machine. Next, Finch re-established their anonymous covers. Professor Whistler took a permanent leave from the college and Detective Riley had been promoted out of the 8th to a nebulous, and completely fictional, adjunct position as NYPD-FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force liaison officer.

His new cover still had him living a double life, with the public benefits of Detective Riley and the freedom of the Man in the Suit. After Shaw’s recovery, the two of them took on the bulk of the non-technical work: cracking heads and capping knees while Harold and Root worked on the Machine. Lionel Fusco and their most recent, albeit unwitting recruit, Detective Dani Silva, provided back up.

The roster went deeper still. Locally, Root’s squad of hackers and other irregulars who could be called on when the chips were down: Frankie Wells, a bulldog of an investigator who was more than capable of handling herself in the field, and the two former ISA operatives that Shaw handled, Grice and Brooks. And then there was Logan Pierce and his crew: Harper Rose, a quick thinking and resourceful asset and Joey Durban, the level headed former soldier.

John didn’t think he’d need that much firepower for this job. Within fifteen minutes he had pulled two clean images from the traffic camera, including a full license plate number. Beside him, his arm brushing against John’s on occasion as he wielded the mouse and keyboard, Harold was extracting information from Guillermo’s phone and had already printed out two pages of results.

"There’s nothing out of the ordinary in his call record. Still, I've compiled a list of his contacts that I can cross reference against his known former associates. Maybe one of them can give us something solid."

John was in the middle of emailing the images and plate to Lionel when he heard the heavy downstairs door open, followed by the clip of Bear’s nails on the marble as the dog ran up the stairs. And after that came Root and Shaw’s voices.

"Uncertainty principle, yeah, I get it, Root, but it’s still a corny joke. Now, this is a joke: Three alphas and an omega walk into a bar..."

John cocked his head to hear the rest. Shaw’s jokes, while invariably crass, were funny. Root could take a few notes. When the rest of the joke didn’t come, John glanced towards the entry hall to see the two alphas and Bear standing stock still. Root’s wide eyes scanned the room side to side before they lit on the make-shift crib.

"Harold? What happened?"

"We....ran into complications."

"Oh, this ought to be fun," Shaw snorted, following Bear and Root over to the crib. "You stole a baby?"

"Not me," Harold said quickly. "John."

"I didn’t _steal_ Eduardo."

"That’s its name?"

"Miss Shaw, Root, we really do have more pressing matters at this moment."

"No luck finding Guillermo?" Root asked John directly.

"Not exactly," Finch interceded. "But we’ve generated more leads. Guillermo and Luz have been missing almost 18 hours now, according to his cell phone call log. We don’t have much time."

"We’ll cover more ground if we split up," John said as he handed one of Finch’s print outs to Shaw. "We’ve got old gang mates, Rikers’ cellies, neighbors, jobs."

"Harold, for the record, this is exactly my argument for activating Samaritan’s higher function operations. If you still insist on handling these irrelevant numbers then we should let Her loose to do what She does best."

"We can continue that discussion later, after we find Guillermo," Finch said with an air of finality.

"Okay nerds, who’s going to babysit while we’re out shaking down witnesses? Because I didn’t sign up for that," Shaw said with a shudder.

Four sets of eyes turned towards the crib and the sight of Bear laying protectively in front of it.

"I’ll take care of Eduardo. You, Root, and John need to go now. Keep your phones on and call if you run into any trouble."

*

Shaw dropped John off at the first stop on his list and from there he spent the rest of the day calling on Guillermo's old friends. Each visit only reinforced the scant facts they already had. Guillermo had done his time with honor and was turning his life around. No one knew of anybody holding a grudge against him. It was early evening when John thanked the last name on his list and started back for the subway.

"Nothing but dead ends here, Finch. Root or Shaw have any better luck?"

"Unfortunately, no."

John could hear the weary edge in Harold’s answer. Even with Bear to help keep watch, John guessed Eduardo had needed a feeding and change in the time since he’d left. "How’s our baby doing, Finch?"

"Cranky."

"Lionel called earlier. Said he got a hit on our plate but he couldn’t match it to anything interesting."

"Another dead end?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. He and Silva caught a body so he couldn’t go into detail on the phone. I’m going to stop by the 8th for his research. I’ll head back after. Need me to pick up anything on the way?"

"A case of newborn formula and diapers. Size 2."

"And you? Have you eaten today?"

"Not yet. I’ll heat up something as soon as I get Eddie to sleep."

John smiled at the tenderness in Harold's voice and the new nickname. Finch had a knack for kids. "Okay. I’ll see you in a while," he signed off.

 

*

 

The 8th precinct squad room was buzzing with activity even at this late hour. Detectives and uniformed officers milled about the floor as he strolled past to Lionel’s desk. On top was a large envelope marked "Riley" and inside it were copies of the images of the black SUV he’d emailed earlier along with the DMV report. He perched on the corner of the desk and began skimming through the paperwork in search of a tangible clue, a name, anything.

"John?"

The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end at the sound of his name and then a moment later came the alluring scent that further identified the owner of the voice.

"Iris," John answered, stuffing the paper back into the envelope before he turned towards her. "You’re working late."

"Catching up on some things," she said from the doorway, wearing a modest floral print dress that fell over her petite frame. Her soft red hair was piled into a professional looking up-do with a few escaped tendrils that curled and framed her clear face. John forced himself to avert his eyes as she crossed the room and came to a stop in front of him. "What’s more surprising is seeing you here. At any hour."

"Yeah," John stammered. "I’m just picking up some..." he gave a pained half smile and offered a view of the envelope.

"The FBI must be keeping you very busy," she said, ignoring his flimsy excuse as she brushed her hand over his beard growth. "We had dinner plans last Monday, remember?"

John leaned into her touch with a throaty growl and caught her hand in his. "I do," he said. He pressed a kiss to her fingers. "And I should have called."

"But you never call anymore," Iris said and pulled her hand away. "I know we agreed that we’d take this slow, but... You’re allowed to say no, John. You don’t have to keep accepting, and breaking, our dates just to keep from hurting my feelings or something."

John cupped his hands at her elbows and pulled her back. Her scent was distressingly potent. An intoxicating musk that called to him. He briefly indulged the idea of taking her up to her office and finally giving her what she wanted. What he needed.

"It’s not like that, Iris," he said instead in a rough whisper. "The new job is time intensive."

"I understand that John, but I clear my schedule for you. So, when you don’t show up and don’t call..."

"I’m sorry," John dropped his head and smoothed his hands over her bare arms. "Let me make it up to you."

"You don’t have to make up anything," Iris said with a puff of frustration. She placed a delicate hand on his chest to hold him off. "And I don’t want to have this conversation here."

John slipped his left hand off of her arm and down to her hip. "Let’s go up to your office," he rasped, closing in against her and breathing in her essence.

Iris closed her hand over his shirt and her blue eyes fluttered shut for a moment before she answered in a shaky voice. "I already have plans for tonight."

"Who?"

"John!" She loosened her hold and took a step back.

"I didn’t mean it like that..."  He’d clearly overstepped the boundaries they’d set for each other and he tried to make amends. "I don’t have any claim on you, I know."

"No. You don’t." Iris dropped her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "I’ve got to get going. Why don’t you give me a call when you have some time. Okay? Maybe we can do lunch one of these days?"

"I’d like that. Maybe this weekend?"

"Let’s... not put anything in stone. Just....call me. When you can."

"I will," John said, forcing the words out.

"Okay. So, I’ll let you get back to work." Iris flashed a quick, tentative smile full of promise and then readjusted her purse over her shoulder and left him and his envelope standing beside Lionel’s desk.

John’s eyes lingered on her as she retreated. She didn’t look back. Irritated with himself and the suddenly uncomfortable pinch of his boxer briefs, John rolled the report in his hand and stalked in the opposite direction for the back exit.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time he returned, his right arm laden with bags full of diapers, formula mix, and warm Indian food -leaving his left free on the odd chance he needed the advantage in a fist, or gun fight on the long walk from Duwat’s to the library - John’s irritation had deepened into anger. After a long day of tackling it from every possible angle, they hadn’t made a dent in the case. The slow churn of progress, the mounting urge to withdraw for a day or two, and his missed opportunity with Iris, left him feeling on edge.

He didn’t have a claim to Iris. He’d had openings, many clear-headed chances to pursue his tentative relationship with the pretty therapist to its logical conclusion. Initially he held back to protect her from Samaritan. After Samaritan’s threat had been neutralized, he held back for other reasons.

Iris was much stronger than she looked. She had grown up in a family of cops. She’d chosen a career in the NYPD. Iris knew the risks of getting involved with a cop, or a ‘government agent’, which was the vague half truth he told her in order to fulfill his promise of "the truth" after he resurfaced.

That was one of the reasons, he told himself. The other: he could never tell her the truth about the Machine and Harold.

The Machine worked autonomously now, sorting the relevant, irrelevant, and occasionally essential, numbers of its own free will; routing them directly to the agency of best influence by discreet means that, if ever investigated, would never reveal the existence of a global all seeing, all pervasive artificial intelligence surveillance system, or the man behind it.

Dispirited, John trudged up the stair’s to Finch’s lair.

The computer monitors glowed eerily in the dimly lit work room. From somewhere in the dark came Bear’s low snore. As John adjusted to the murk, he found Harold curled tight on the leather couch. For a man who took great pride in his ability to get by on next to no sleep, John could only imagine Finch’s indignity when he had to admit that the little pup had gotten the best of him.

He deposited Eduardo’s supplies on the work desk then, bag of food in hand, wedged himself in on the far edge of the couch next to Finch and nudged his leg gently.

"Shhh...It’s me. I brought you some food."

Finch groaned. His feet hit John’s thigh as he tried to stretch. "John?" he called in a muzzy voice.

"Fell asleep on the job, did you?"

Even in the dim light John could make out the facial expression that accompanied Finch’s grumbled response as he sat up. "It took longer than I expected to get him to sleep."

"You’re getting rusty," John teased. He leaned back against the solid leather and breathed in, relaxing in the familiar warmth and calm of Finch’s presence.

"Leila was nearly four years ago, Mr. Reese. And she understood schedules."

"Nearly five years old now," John said wistfully. Time had a funny habit of passing, whether you paid attention or not. He recognized where this trail of thought was taking him and tried to shake it off. "Here," he said as he passed the bag of take out over to Finch. "Chicken Tikka Masala."

"Excellent choice. Oh, and you got the garlic naan!"

"I know what you like, Finch."

Harold removed the foil wrapped flat bread and one of the cardboard boxes before he passed the bag back. "You know what I’d really like?"

"I can guess," John said as he pulled his food and the plastic ware out. "I want to double check Fusco’s info after dinner, but at first glance, it looks like another dead end."

"A rental car?"

"Stolen. The owner reported it three weeks ago."

Finch’s body shifted against John’s as he sighed in frustration. "This is troubling, John. The clock is ticking on Guillermo and we don’t know who took him, assuming that’s what happened, or why."

"What Root said earlier...is there more the Machine could be doing for us?"

"I’d say the Machine is doing enough already. I’m not prepared to..." Finch went quiet for a moment before continuing. "I think it’s best to maintain some human checks and balances for the time being. She’s...still learning so many new things."

John didn’t press him on that. He had a clear understanding of what Finch and Root had done already towards integrating Samaritan’s coding into the Machine. Even though they hadn’t discussed the situation in depth, he knew there were still lines Finch wasn’t willing to cross and John respected his reasons.

The conversation died down as they shared dinner.

After John had eaten his fill he closed his container and set it aside, disinclined to move from his spot just yet.

"Has Bear been out?"

"Miss Shaw stopped by earlier and took him for a walk."

"You couldn’t talk her into babysitting?"

"I didn’t want to push my luck. Apparently her aversion to children extends both up and down the age range."

"Sounds like the Shaw we know and love."

"Hmm. It’s good to have her back. She has her bad days. She tries to hide it, but, Miss Shaw is still a recovery in process."

"I know," John answered, recalling many days when the weight of her time under Samaritan’s care had been too much for her to wisecrack away. Days John had spent sitting patiently on the other side of her door, trying to coax her out of her rat trap of an apartment. "We all are."

"About that," Finch started, "our conversation earlier. I wanted to... remind you, Mr. Reese, that ..."

John angled himself closer to catch Harold’s carefully worded thoughts.

"You are essential to this mission. You’re essential to me. And if you’ve ever doubted that, don’t."

Computers, babies, and him, from the very beginning of their association to now, Finch had a knack. A small chuckle rolled through John’s chest at the thought and then died away at the continuation of the idea. Even more so than Zoe or Joss, Harold knew him.

And just like the others, generous with what they could give but completely unsuited to offer what John needed most at the moment.

"I know, Harold," John said at last.

With a kind pat of his hand over Finch’s knee, John offered his hand across for the empty take-out box. "You should get some sleep. I’ll stay the night here and keep an ear on our baby while I go over Fusco’s report."

"I’ve caught a bit of a second wind and can go a bit longer." Finch said as he helped bag the trash.

Moving quietly in the dark, the two of them relocated to the side audio room. Finch took a moment to flick on the worlds most high-tech baby monitor before they got settled at the little work table. John passed over Fusco’s envelope, then pulled out his small notebook to review his interviews from the day and compare his notes to Shaw and Root’s.

It didn’t take long to see that all of the people they talked to corroborated the same story. They were missing something and John was running out of ideas of what that something could be.

Next to him, Finch held the traffic cam photo to the light, his frown deepening as he studied the blurry image of the driver and passenger. "There’s not enough here to get a good facial match. Where’s the stolen vehicle report?"

John looked up from the Fries and Thighs employee list and pushed the paper across the table.

"2016 Porche Cayenne. Pricey," Finch murmured as he read. "Stolen from the garage of a Reginald Whelan III.

"What was that?"

"The car was taken from the garage three weeks ago. I’m amazed the thieves didn’t chop it for parts right away. Something that flashy would raise attention."

"No..." John reached for the report. "Here. Reginald Whelan III."

Finch shook his head slowly. "I’ve never met the man but I’ve heard the name, an independently wealthy philanthropist."

"I’m familiar with the name too," John answered quickly. "Run a genealogy search."

Finch’s eyes grew wide as he recalled another degree of separation between his wealthy aliases and the unfortunate car owner. He pulled his keyboard close and began typing. "You don’t think..."

"It would explain a lot," John said as he leaned in to watch the search results come back.

"Heir to the Whelan fortune his grandfather established."

"Fortune and boys home?"

"Yes."

"So our friend’s been busy."

Harold leaned back in his chair and pulled his glasses off for a moment. "I wouldn’t know. I lost track of him after Samaritan’s failed assassination attempt."

"You think this is his way of making contact?"

Harold rubbed a hand over his eyes before replacing his glasses. "More like drawing us out. It never occurred to me that he would be so insistent."

John dug his phone from his jacket. "Joss should be able to get me a contact number. She and Donnelly worked with him over the summer to crack down a guns for drugs operation."

"You think he knows something?"

"I doubt much happens in this city without him knowing."

"That didn’t exactly work out as planned last time," Finch said cautiously.

"Last time I had something he wanted, this time I just need information. Open air kidnapping, that’s the Toreros Cartel’s calling card and if anybody has an idea why the cartels would target Guillermo, it’s Elias."

 

"John, wait." Harold stood stiffly and walked to a nearby file cabinet where he retrieved an old flip phone from his collection of burners. "Calling Detective Carter in on this will take this case out of our hands. You know that, right? While she begrudgingly turned a blind eye last time, we _are_ talking kidnapping."

John traced his eyes from Harold’s face to the flip phone and back before giving a wary nod. "You know his number?"

"Numbers are my specialty," Finch deadpanned and dialed from memory. While the call connected, John rose from the table and walked to stand beside him. After two rings the call was answered.

"Good evening, Harold."

"Elias?"

"Who else were you expecting?"

"Do you have Guillermo Torres?"

"I’m fine, Harold. Thank you for asking."

"You’re playing games with a man’s life, Elias."

"Don’t be so dramatic. Guillermo and his lovely lady are well. How about you, Harold? And John? It’s been a long time."

"What do you want?"

"To talk. To catch up. A lot has happened since I last saw you two. Breakfast?"

"We can meet now."

"It’s nearly ten at night, Harold. So eager. I take it you missed me?"

John bristled at the tinny voice coming through the speaker. He respected the peace among the criminal class that Elias had achieved, but he didn’t respect the man’s methods, and he didn’t appreciate the insinuation that Harold _missed_ Elias’ company.

"Can we meet tonight?" Harold asked in a low voice.

After a slight pause, Elias returned with his answer. "Corner of 33rd  and Lexington in thirty minutes. I’ll send a car."

The line went dead. Reese and Finch exchanged an uneasy look.

"That’s a fifteen minute walk, Mr. Reese. I’ll call Root to look after Eduardo."

"No. I’ll pack his bag. He’s coming with us."

"John, we’re not taking him with us."

"You heard him Finch. You asked about Guillermo – he answered with Guillermo _and_ Luz."

"That doesn’t —"

"Get your jacket, Finch. We’ve got just under a half hour now," John said firmly. He knew his plan was rash, but he also knew this was probably the only chance they’d get to recover the missing man and his girlfriend and return the pup to his family.

With the thought of reuniting the Torres family firmly in mind, John made a quick sweep of the library, filling Bear’s bowls then packing Eduardo’s food and diapers. Bear watched the activity with a curious tilt of his head, followed by a low whine when John gave him the command to stay.

"Harold?" John called, the bag looped over his elbow and Eduardo in his arms.

"Just one more thing." Harold was at his computer typing. Satisfied, he walked to the box where he kept his spare glasses and swapped the pair he was wearing for a new pair.

"Just in case we need rescuing," Harold said in response to John’s unasked question and tapped his finger against the frames. "Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that."

They took a meandering route and reached the rendezvous point with minutes to spare. John surveilled the corner while they waited. It was possible Elias was setting them up for a hit, but John’s gut told him that wasn’t the man’s motive. As twisted as the breakfast invite had been, John was inclined to think it was closer to the truth than an assassination attempt.

Thirty minutes later to the second, a dark sedan pulled up along the curb in front of them. Two large men exited the front of the car. The driver shot his passenger a quizzical look when they saw the baby, to which, the other man shrugged and walked to the back of the car. A few seconds later he re-emerged with a car seat which he then expertly strapped in to the back seat.

"Do you know how to do up the belts?" the man asked as he held the door open for them.

"We’ll figure it out. Your boss thought of everything, I see," Harold answered in a cagey voice.

"Safety first," the man said. "Now, if you would, please."

John secured Eduardo into the seat and then they were off for the silent drive to Elias’ discreet house at the other end of the island. Armed guards greeted them in the driveway. There was some confusion when John pulled the baby and carrier out of the back seat, but the men were professionals and they soon got over the surprise. Once the visitors were unloaded, they led them to the front portico where Elias stood waiting.

"Harold. John." Elias greeted them with a wide smile and an open flourish of his hands. "And this is?" he asked, a devious twinkle in his eye as he took in the image of Harold,  John and the baby.

"Eduardo. We're looking after him for the time being."

"They say history doesn't repeat, rather, it echoes. Do you feel comfortable bringing another baby to my front door, John?"

"That's a risk we take dealing with you. Don’t make me regret it."

His knowing smile still in place, Elias nodded and dismissed the armed guards with a wave. He turned back inside for a moment to whisper instructions to the man standing behind him then returned his attention to John and Harold. "Come in."

He led them through the well appointed house to the formal dining room. The table was laid with fresh bread and fragrant oil, green olives, and wine. Place settings sat in front of three of the seven chairs that ringed the table. The eight spot, near the head of the table, was occupied by an electric wheelchair.

"Anthony, our guests have arrived," Elias announced as he ushered them inside.

Anthony signaled his curiosity with a slight up tilt of his head. The low chair motor hummed as he maneuvered himself around the table for a closer look. As Anthony studied them, John returned the attention, swallowing back his deep regret.

Having seen the blast damage to the former Whelan Home for Boys, John and Harold had no reason to believe anyone in the penthouse survived. But here he was, much worse for wear, but alive.

"It’s good to see you again, Anthony," John said. Scarface now seemed a particularly cruel nickname.

Elias took up his place beside Anthony and rested his arm over the man’s shoulder. "I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised to hear from you Harold. I was afraid we'd left off on bad terms."

"I've been rather busy of late."

"Something to do with the recent change in the air? That was you, wasn't it?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Just like I remember you Harold, still holding your cards close. Come, let’s sit. We have a lot of catching up to do," Elias said as he guided them towards the table. "John, that carrier will fit in the chair, but you’re welcome to sit Eduardo on the table if you’d like. I’ve asked cook to warm up a bottle for him."

"You are quite the prescient host," Harold said, exchanging a quick glance across to John.

"Oh no, the pup was a surprise. We just happen to be equipped to handle him. No tricks, Harold."

John set the carrier in the chair to his left, leaving Harold the chair to his right, next to Elias and opposite Anthony. From his position he could cover the pup and the door, but not Harold. He was coming to hate this reckless plan.

"So, you wanted to talk?" Harold began.

"I thought it was time."

"We are at your disposal."

"I’d like answers, Harold. Let’s start with the night of the Purge. The last of the Russian holdouts, The Mexicans, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles – one night took care of a lot of my problems. Curious, don’t you think?"

"I had nothing to do with that, Elias."

"And I believe you, Harold. You disappeared afterward, your phone number disconnected. For a long while I assumed you’d also been caught, but then, a few months ago, I had the good fortune to work with the lovely detective, and you know what I learned? That you and John were still alive."

"She told you this?"

"Not directly."

"What does this have to do with Guillermo Torres?"

"Nothing. I was hoping you could give me some answers."

"About?"

"Why are _you_ looking for Guillermo? I targeted the girlfriend."

John shifted his body to cover the carrier while he slipped his fingers over his weapon. Across the table, Anthony cleared his throat with a loud, scratchy cough.

"John," Elias chided gently. "There’s no need for that here. We’re all just friends enjoying a late night snack. Speaking of..."

Elias plucked the open wine bottle from the table and began filling the four glasses. As he poured, the dining room door opened and an older woman in a dark service dress entered with a tray bearing a small bottle and two jars of pureed food. She smiled down at the sleeping baby as she laid the items, along with a stack of linen napkins and a tiny silver spoon in the place setting to John’s left.

Elias waited until she cleared the room before he resumed. "So Guillermo and Luz, how did they get on your radar, Harold?"

"As I’ve told you before, I have sources of information."

"Electronic sources, emails, phone calls, surveillance cameras?"

Harold answered with a blank stare.

"You’d rather not go into detail. I understand."

"Elias, while I appreciate your hospitality, we came to retrieve Guillermo and Luz."

"Of course, and I hope to accommodate you – but I still have a few questions."

"Enough of this, Elias," John growled. "Where are they?"

"Safe. Probably a little rattled, but safe for the moment." Elias’ genial smile slid away.

"You said you targeted Luz," Harold prodded. "Why?"

"I suppose you expect full disclosure from me, while you have been...decidedly closemouthed, Harold. That’s hardly fair."

"I don’t think it’s much of a secret that electronic communications are vulnerable."

"So you have access?"

"What is it you really want, Elias?"

"The truth, Harold. Since the purge threw everything back into chaos, I’ve worked very hard to regain control of the city. Maybe you’ve noticed?"

"And?"

"And, since it appears that the police and federal offices have been brought back into line, that leaves me to suspect there’s a hand at the wheel. Your hand specifically. Am I wrong, Harold?"

"So you brought two innocent people into this to draw me out!"

"Innocent is a relative term. Luz came across some information that wasn’t intended for her. She shared that information with Guillermo. It only takes one misguided act of chivalry to ruin a life, Harold. You might say, I’ve done them both a favor using them as bait instead of.... Well, these are new times, adapt or die, as the saying goes."

"You have us here, Elias," John said softly. "What is it you want?"

"To broker a truce."

"I thought we were already on the same page? You run your business and we stay out of the way as long as you’re not threatening innocent lives. Which, it sounds like you might be doing now."

"Seeing how Harold here appears to be our new benevolent dictator, I thought it was time to reaffirm our agreement. I mean, it’s been nearly two years since we last talked."

Harold snorted. John couldn’t suppress his slight smile at the idea of Harold as dictator. Elias’ quip had come closer to the mark than he could ever guess.

"What are your terms?"

"Nothing much, Harold. In fact, the same as before. You and John continue doing your thing and you stay out of my way."

"And the benefit to us?"

"I don’t make more work for you. I keep to the shadows as I’ve always done. I maintain order."

"Guillermo and Luz?"

"Waiting in a van outside while we conclude our business here."

"And that’s all? We’re finished?"

"Two more things: My sources tell me we’re not the only ones who survived the purge. Do you have information on Dominic?"

Harold leaned forward. "No. Is he back in business?"

"Possibly. Someone has set up a new heroin supply line running through the Fulton Street Fish Market. That’s what the girl stumbled upon, then she told her boyfriend who planned to tell the police."

"So you kidnapped them to keep them quiet?"

"I persuaded them, yes. I’d rather do my own investigating, John. And, they seemed like the perfect subjects for my little experiment," he added, gesturing toward John and Harold with his wine glass.

"The second thing?" Harold asked sharply.

Elias took a slow sip of wine then set his glass down carefully. "I’d like to resume our standing chess game."

"You went through all of this for that!" Harold sputtered.

"All of _this_ brought you back to my table. Once I make friends I like to keep them close, so it was worth the effort."

John watched as Harold took up his glass and knocked back the cool wine. Elias’ plan was extreme, but so was everything the man did. The important thing was that Guillermo and Luz were safe and Eduardo could go home tonight. As if on cue, the pup woke from his nap with a lusty cry.

John unhanded his gun and picked the baby up from the carrier. "It’s getting late, Elias," John said, guiding the bottle towards the baby’s hungry mouth. "Is the number we have for you good?"

"Yes, it’s my personal line. Perhaps you have a number for me? I’d hate to have to go through this elaborate ruse every time I want to talk to you."

"Harold?" John asked gently.

"My schedule is much heavier now than it was during our last game," Harold said, directing his answer to Elias.

"As is mine, now that I’m out of prison. I’m sure we’ll figure out something that works for both of us."

After a long pause, Harold nodded. He produced a crisp business card from an inner pocket and slid it across to the head of the table. "I’m in the middle of a project at the moment, but in a week or so, will that suffice?"

"Absolutely," Elias said as he pocketed the card. "And now, you’re right, it’s very late."

Elias stood and a moment later the dining room door opened, revealing two guards. "Gianni and Marco will walk you back to your car," he said smoothly. He took up his place behind Anthony’s chair, his hands cupped lightly over the injured man’s shoulders. "It was good seeing you both. We look forward to the next time."

John resettled the quieted pup back into the car seat carrier and then stood. He and Finch followed the guards back out to the wide driveway where the sedan that had brought them here was parked behind a dark van. Marco peeled off and gestured for John to follow. The man wrenched open the side door of the van and inside, Guillermo and Luz sat bound and blindfolded.

"Who’s there?!" Guillermo called, straining against his ropes.

"Relax. We’re just returning some lost property," Marco answered, then pointed John towards the last row of seats. "Buckle him in there. I’ll tell the driver to take it easy."

"Eduardo?!" Guillermo struggled harder.

"He’s okay, Guillermo," John said gently as he climbed inside and secured the pup. "You’re all going to be okay. Just a little longer. These men are taking you home."

"Who are you?" Luz asked frantically.

John didn’t have an answer. While he and Finch had been successful in earning their safe release, he couldn’t downplay his role in whatever they’d had to endure at Elias’ hands.

With Eduardo safely strapped in and the bag of supplies loaded in on the floor rest under him, John exited the van and rejoined Harold by the car. Marco closed the van and, honoring his promise, exchanged a few words with the driver before sending the van down the drive and back to Hunt’s Point.

John and Harold’s trip back to the city was uneventful. The adrenaline was still pumping when, at Harold’s request, Elias’ man dropped them off at Times Square. Even in the bright glow of electronic billboards and neon, the location offered them the cover to disappear without being trailed.

"Elias is smitten," John teased, his steadying hand at Harold’s back as they took the long way towards the library.

"Please, Mr. Reese. Elias is attracted to power and he’s gotten a mistaken impression of how much power I wield."

"I don’t think so. With Samaritan and Greer’s puppets gone, you have filled the vacuum."

"I never asked for this responsibility."

"But you’re the right man for it."

"For how much longer? We can’t keep doing this forever."

"Let’s not worry about forever. You’re doing a good job now."

He heard Harold’s loud sigh just before he stopped on the sidewalk.

"Would you mind retrieving Bear on your own? I’d like to go home now."

"Sure. You okay?" John asked, peering down at his partner. Exhaustion was etched in every line of Harold’s face and John was struck with the irrational urge to pull him close and offer comfort.

"It’s been a very long day, Mr. Reese. You should get some rest too."

John pulled his hand away from Harold and stepped aside. "Call me if anything comes up. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning?"

"Yes John, I’ll see you in the morning."

 


	5. Chapter 5

John congratulated himself as he unlocked the door to Riley’s apartment. He had avoided gunshots, prolonged foot chases, hand to hand combat, refrigerated trucks, and defenestration. Aside from scaling Guillermo's backyard fence, he'd had a light day. He'd earned himself a hot shower and full night of sleep in a bed.

After securing the apartment and getting Bear settled, he called Finch to check in. The call went to voicemail and his congratulatory ease shifted. John thought back to their earlier meeting. Elias was as slippery as they came but he was also a man of his word.Trouble was, it was often hard to pin down the exact intent of his words.Just as he picked up the phone to dial again, Finch sent a reply by text.
    
    
    -- Home. Get some rest. H

Home and well into a muscle relaxant and warm soak bath, John interpreted. Harold guarded his daily pain level like it was a state secret. John had translated most of them: lower back, upper back, hip, neck, and the many combinations in which the pains came together. Today it had been neck and back. Finch had a knack for pups but not the stamina.

Maybe that had been the root of the curious scent he'd gotten off his partner all day: Finch's normal subdued, nearly non-existent natural scent, tinged with agitation, and over the course of the day, ripening into something sharper. Eduardo most likely, but there was something else in it. Some new element that John had never noticed on his partner before. The thought niggled in the back of his brain for a bit before he put it aside. Today had been unusual all around.
    
    
    -- CU in the am

He sent back the short reply then walked through to the bedroom.

It had been days since he'd last come home properly. A few hours sleep here and there at the library, another couple of hours in the backseat of his car, four, too brief, hours on Joss' couch. Tonight he planned on a hot shower followed by six solid hours.

Alone in his bedroom, John didn’t have to keep up appearances. Slowly, punctuated by sore grunts and tired groans, he stripped out of his clothes. A frown curled his lips as he peeled his tacky briefs away from his cock, semi-erect and the tip still glistening with pre-come. He'd never been a leaker, not during his usually subdued rut cycles.

He stepped out of the sticky black underwear then, naked, leaned over to scoop up his strewn clothing and sort the suit and jacket into his pile of dry cleaning before tossing his underthings into the laundry hamper. He was going to need time off soon and he already had a few milk bars in mind: discreet out-call services that catered to, usually much younger, alphas in his condition by offering clean and receptive omegas at day rates. John stroked a hand over himself as he walked to the bath. It wasn’t ideal, but he’d availed himself of the service in the past and at this point, any omega would do.

While the ancient plumbing struggled to heat the shower, John brushed his teeth. As he raised his head from the sink he caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet and paused. He scraped a hand over his rough cheeks; Joss had been generous in her assessment. His trim up job had tamed the gray whiskers somewhat, but the nearly week long growth gave him a decidedly sketchy look. It might not be a bad idea to put off shaving until after he finished his business at the milk bar.

A thin cloud of steam emanated from the shower and he pushed aside the cheap curtain and stepped inside. With his hands braced high on the tiled wall, back to the shower head, John let the hot water pelt his sore muscles, leaving him free to deal with his other more immediate ache.

His hand, grazing lightly over his chest in a slow drag down his wet stomach, was a poor substitute, but, it was the best he could do for now. This would buy him time.

Iris was probably a no-go. He’d have to call her soon, call her _after_. He’d gladly sit through one of her Broadway play dates for the chance to see her with her hair down, silky red curls brushing against her neck as she watched the stage in rapt attention.

He kept his fingers loose and light as he trailed them along his cock. A different sort of pleasure to the feel of Iris’ hair through his fingers. At least he’d come away with that memory. The easy way she fit in his arms and her light, sweet scent. Wild strawberries and cream, mostly her shampoo, but beneath that, the milk fat smooth of her skin as he stilled her never ending questions with a brush of his lips.

The trick was to slow it down, draw it out.

John planted his hands back on the warm, wet tile and inhaled deeply. His cock twitched, untouched.

Zoe’s hair was thick and ticklish against his skin and when she was ready, she climbed astride him and tossed it back as she rode. Wild curls for tangling his fingers through, for looping around his hands and tugging her down to him.

He exhaled loudly and lowered his left hand to cup around his cock, rocking into the wet friction. ...six, seven, eight... Start and stop, an exercise of will power. Well regulated muscles contracting and releasing, his cock bobbing helplessly, and he breathed in the steamy air.

The really good stuff lay deeper in his sensory bank. Nights when Joss let him in through the front door. Cold beers and the eleven o’clock news, half asleep in her lap on the couch. Jasmine and gunpowder and the one time she let him hold the pins for her while she brushed and wrapped her hair for bed.

He squeezed his fingers round himself and felt the hot pulse of blood through veins under thin skin, thrumming in time with his shallow breaths.

Slow it down, draw it out. He pulled his hand off and turned towards the shower spray, gasping as the hot water beat against his chest and torso. The whole exercise was bordering on uncomfortable now but there were still further depths to the vault.

Hot water and pre-come. Right hand swapped out for his left for a slow, slick, and wet twist from tip to the slight swell at the base. He eased his long legs wide apart and drew slippery circles through his short curls.

Rough and sturdy like a bolt of fine dark wool, patterned in subtle gray flecks. In speckled tweed or herringbone. Glen check. Pinstriped. Buttoned down, restrained power on display in his showdown with Elias.

John’s groans reverberated off the tiles. He pulled off, taking a moment to marvel at the long tendrils of pre-come webbing his fingers. He had to slow it down.

Finch undressed. Submerged neck deep in some fancy soaking tub. Marble, or something equally extravagant, he guessed. He’d never seen Harold’s bathtub, of course, but he’d had nearly six years to work up the scene and add details as they were revealed. A soaking tub with a cushion for his neck. With music, on vinyl. Classical or opera, Italian opera, Verdi and his entire company of cats. A medicinal marijuana joint, Harold was a very light drinker. Harold’s glasses and phone would be within easy reach, the lights dimmed. Epsom salt would make more sense but John preferred the idea of bubbles.

In actuality, nothing about the scene made sense, from imagining his fussy, suit and tied partner in the imaginary bathtub, to the fact that the image was one of the most potent fantasies in his arsenal.

....six...seven..eight..nine.teneleven.

His slick palm flew over his cock as he drew out the desperate jerk count under the punishing heat of the shower and he came in an explosion of thick, ropey strands of come that splattered over his hand and onto his belly and hard against the tiled wall. He kept going, milking himself dry as he tried to trick his brain, however temporarily, into thinking he was satisfied.

Drained and miserable, John rinsed himself clean, shut off the water, stepped out, and made a beeline for the medicine cabinet. Behind the bottles of aspirin, multivitamins, and glucosamine was the dusty blister pack of AndrogenB P.M. He popped two tablets free and swallowed them down with a cupped handful of water. In the Army, and later, the CIA, the full strength dosage of the little pink pills was the number one choice for an alpha caught in the field, and far away from a warm port, when rut hit. This over-the-counter version wouldn’t get him through a full on rut, but it could help take the edge off. It would get him through the night.

*

John woke with the sun and a warm stickiness coating his belly and thighs. He slid his foot along the bed to locate Bear before he rolled to his back. There was none of the usual resistance. Puzzled, John flipped over and rose up on his elbows to scan the room. Bear was across the apartment, stretched out before the front door and watching John intently.

"Don't worry," John groaned and dropped his head back to the pillows. "I'm not that desperate yet."

Yet, being the operative word. The pills had done their job as well as could be expected. He'd set his expectations low: overnight. But as he pulled the stained top sheet away he saw the full evidence that they hadn't even met that low bar. He was covered in a drying crust of his own cum from some stray thought in his sleep that activated some lizard part of his brain. Adding insult to injury, he was still hard.

John pushed up to sit back against the headboard. He lifted his phone off the night table and checked the log. Finch had sent a text two hours ago.
    
    
    -- French Toast?

Why was Finch up so late? Quickly, John unlocked the cell and typed.
    
    
    -- 8?

The reply came back immediately.
    
    
    -- Ok. The usual.

It wasn’t a breakfast invite as much as Finch's nondescript way of saying, _We need to meet. Eight o'clock is fine, it's not urgent. I'll be at the Library._

That gave him a little over two hours.

He opened the top drawer of the night stand and dropped the phone inside. Not that he thought the Machine was looking in, or anyone else for that matter, and not that he would care under most circumstances, but not today.

He spit lubed his left hand and went to work.

On the other side of the apartment, Bear let out a piteous howl.

John growled and dropped his hand. He pushed across the sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. In two long strides he reached and closed the bedroom door on his unwanted audience.

Now that he'd left the bed he wasn't inclined to crawl back into the stiffening sheets so John took the show to the bathroom. A quick jerk, a cold shower and clean up, another dose of the testosterone blocker before he got dressed.

Bear was pacing at the door when John finally emerged from the bedroom, phone in his pocket, weapons secured under his suit. The dog kept the leash pulled tight as they walked around the block, and once they got to the car, he insisted on riding in the back seat for the drive to work.

John glared at Bear in the rear view mirror. "Do you give Shaw this much trouble?"

Bear answered with a sharp bark.

They rode in silence after that and when they got to the Library, the dog dashed away as soon as John unhooked his leash.

On the other side of the room, Harold, porcelain teacup in hand, sat at his computer, crisp in a tan striped suit accented by a plumb colored tie. Effortless, but John didn’t have much time to appreciate the sartorial styling because at that moment, seventy-two pounds of agitated muscle was hurtling down the short hallway on a collision course with his partner.

"Af liggen, Bear!" Harold cried as he rattled the delicate china onto the saucer a split second before his chair spun and banked against the work table.

John sprinted across the room, whistling Bear to him. He cuffed his hand firmly under the dog’s collar and guided him away from Harold.

"Zit," John barked and Bear whined and sat. "Braaf, Bear, braaf," John murmured, patting Bear’s shoulder.

"He's in a mood this morning," John offered with a sheepish smile. "I'll have Shaw take him out for a hard run later."

"That sounds like a very good idea," Finch muttered as he pulled his pocket square out and began dabbing at the droplets on his sleeve. "While I appreciate the enthusiastic greeting, I can’t have him chasing through the place in reckless sprees."

"I’ll take care of it." John pointed Bear towards his bed with a gentle, "af liggen, Bear," and a soft pat on the rump. He waited until the dog trotted across to his bed, still set up across from the desk even though Eduardo’s makeshift crib had been removed sometime during the night.

"What time did you come in this morning?" John asked, as he walked to stand beside his partner.

"Early. I wanted to check up on Guillermo, Luz and Eduardo, and take a look at the Fish Market."

John rested his hand on Harold's shoulder and leaned forward to study the newly acquired street camera view of the Torres house now displaying on Finch’s screen. "How’s our baby doing?"

"Not our baby, Mr. Reese," Finch said tightly and rolled his chair a few inches away along the curve of the table, dislodging John’s touch. "And he’s fine. No unusual traffic or attention so far."

John’s nostrils flared as he caught a fleeting whiff of the unfamiliar scent again. He turned toward Finch, eyes narrowing slightly. Despite Bear’s frenzied greeting a moment ago, this didn’t smell like fear.

He knew that some betas were more sensitive to the subtle scent shift that signaled an alpha rut or omega heat than others. It wasn’t a topic they’d ever discussed. And, as far as John knew, even if Finch could smell the rut on him, it would be highly unlikely to provoke a scent shift in the beta. So, there was something else at play here.

"Are you okay, Finch?" John prodded gently.

"Of course! Why do you ask?"

"No reason. You... you seem stressed."

"Well," Harold began, rolling his chair further back, "I have lots of work to do, as do you."

Harold stood and limped the long way around the table to pull a sheet from the printer. "I’d like you to follow up on these names," he said as he came around to hand off the sheet of paper before continuing on past John. "Perhaps Detective Carter can provide some insight."

"What am I looking for," John murmured, briefly glancing at the print-out before tracking his eyes back to Harold.

"I’m not sure." Harold walked over to the storage closet behind the reference maps and wrenched open the door. "I did some digging around on the Fish Market. I thought it would be prudent to learn more about this new organization moving in."

"Anything to connect this to Dominic?"

"On the surface, no, but Elias is correct in his suspicions. There have been recent irregularities in the Market’s financial statements, unaccounted monies flowing in and out of the operation."

John folded the list and shoved it into his pocket and crossed the room to hold the closet door open for Harold.

"Please, Mr. Reese," Harold snapped as he pulled the bag of dog treats from the shelf. "Don’t hover." Harold angled away and vectored from John toward Bear. "I’d appreciate you looking into any possible connections. I’ll contact you if anything else comes up."

"About that, I, uh..." John paused and took a moment to close the storage closet door. "I need to take a few days off."

"Understandable," Harold said flatly, his back to John as he leaned slightly to feed Bear a biscuit. "Will you and Detective Carter be able to work on that list as well or should I pass it on to Root?"

John’s lips thinned and he proceeded with caution. "I’ll take care of it. I’ll have my phone if you need me, or if Root or Shaw..."

"I’m sure we’ll get along, Mr. Reese."

"You know, there’s nothing going on with me and Joss, right?" John blurted out to the back of Harold’s bowed head.

"As I’ve said many times, Mr. Reese, your personal life is your business."

"What did you mean by 'understandable'? What are you understanding?"

Harold wiped the dog biscuit crumbs off his hands and straightened. After a moment he turned, his face schooled in a pleasant semblance of a smile. "My apologies, Mr. Reese. My comments were, perhaps, inappropriate. I understand that you need time off. My guess is equally inappropriate, but I assume it's because you are in your mating cycle."

John’s brows inched higher. He was in worse shape than he’d imagined if Finch could tell.

"I imagine that must be..." Finch’s face colored slightly as he groped for the most delicate wording, "...distracting. So. You should...take care of things. The ladies and I can handle a few days on our own. We do have reserves. And... I’ll contact you if anything important comes up, but... well... I also understand the concept of _do not disturb_."

John dropped his eyes away. Even a beta as well read as Finch couldn’t fathom everything that went under the heading of _do not disturb_ for an alpha, or even understand how awkward this entire conversation was.

"Appreciate it," John mumbled.

"I’ll see you in a few days then," Finch said, keeping the smile plastered in place.

"Yeah." John patted his pocket and the paper inside. "I let you know if I shake anything out of your list."

"Of course." Harold nodded slightly, the bag of treats folded in his hands.

"Alright." John returned the nod then pivoted for the exit. "Have Shaw take Bear out," he called over his shoulder.

"Will do, Mr. Reese."


	6. Chapter 6

"Come on in, John. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a key to the file cabinets? —Probably quicker than picking _all_ the locks?"

John glanced up at the sound of Joss' voice, slanted his eyes down to his armful of case files, then back again. Joss leaned against the door frame, mid-morning coffee in hand, raking a reproachful eye over him as he shouldered the cabinet drawer shut. "Your secretary wasn't at the desk so..."

"So you just came on in?"

This wasn't the first time he'd let himself in and it probably wouldn't be the last. While she closed the door, he took the opportunity to walk the files over to her desk and hover. "I'm doing some research on a case."

"I see." Joss shook her head in disbelief as she walked across to her desk. She waved him down to the empty chairs opposite her. "Is this your thing from yesterday morning?"

"Maybe," he answered as he flicked open his jacket and slid into a seat. "We're still figuring it out." John pulled the list from his pocket and unfolded it on the desktop. "Do any of these sound familiar?"

She scanned the names carefully, occasionally shaking her head as she worked down the list. When she reached the end, Joss tapped a slender finger against the paper. She glanced at the stack of tabbed case files then slowly raised her eyes to John.

"Does this have anything to do with your late night visit to Elias?"

John blinked in an unconscious display of fluster. "You heard about that?"

"Something about reuniting with his chess partner," she said as she straightened the list against the edge of her desk and closed it with two meticulous foldsbefore sliding her top desk drawer open and dropping it inside. She leaned back in her chair. "Not you, I'm guessing?"

"Your intel is good, Carter. Quick. I'm guessing now that Finch and I were late to the reunion?"

Joss narrowed her eyes, her scent sharper now. "Is this going to become a problem for me, John?"

"I don't see why it has to, Joss," he said in a low voice. "It's just chess."

She cut her eyes toward her office door before leaning across the desk. "I know how it works with your friend, John. And Elias. There's _always_ a double agenda."

His smile slid away. "Is that a warning, Joss?"

"Elias has a very delicate understanding with the Bureau. You don't want to get caught up in it."

"He's a Bureau informant now?"

"No. He's never gonna' give up anything worthwhile." Carter deflated back into her seat. Her sharp spike of protective anger was subsiding. She took up her cooling coffee cup and continued. "Every agency in the country is still recovering from Samaritan's mess. The Bureau's no different. We're even more shorthanded down here on the ground.

"Elias was one of the lucky ones after May 6th, he lived. We still don't know how his people got to him, but when he finally resurfaced, NYPD, FBI -he had buyers for what he was willing to sell."

"Not information?" John asked, puzzled. He couldn't see Elias turning snitch, that went against the old-school values the man stood for.

"Secondary peace keeping duties," she said with a note of distaste.

"He keeps the gangs in line?"

"He keeps the gangs in line."

"Sounds like a scandal waiting to happen."

"You think? And now he's re-establishing old contacts."

John leaned back in his chair. So, Elias was using him and Finch to get intel on the new rival gang. He had no doubts that Elias would keep the peace, just like he had with the old Dons and the Russians.

"What about Dominic? They never recovered his body either."

"If he survived, we haven't heard from him," Joss answered. "But your list of names, a few of them ring bells: former associates, bulk dealers, transport crew."

"Any of them still active?"

"Like I said, The Brotherhood, as far as we know, pretty much fell apart after May 6th." She tapped the top of her desk and gave a short nod. "I'll put one of our best guys on your list and see if we can come up with something."

"I appreciate it."

"Not a problem. Upper management is still too green," she admitted with a weary sigh. "They think they have one up on Elias. I'm pretty sure this is going to blow up in the Bureau's face sooner or later."

"You know, Joss, the job offer's always open, if you everwant to get out."

Joss flashed a quick smile and waved off the idea of joining Finch's operation full-time. "I'm good. I've already spent too much time underground waiting out the Quinn and HR trials. It feels nice to be back at a regular job."

"The Feds are lucky to have you."

Her full cheeks flushed and she dropped her eyes for a moment before changing the subject entirely. "I see you decided to keep it?" she teased, drawing her fingers down her chin.

"For now. I've had a busy week."

"And what about your other problem?"

"I'm working on it," he said glumly.

"How?" she asked bluntly. "And not that yoga and deep breathing bull either, you're going to be in full rut any day now."

"Bucks," he mumbled. "That was the other reason I stopped by."

Joss recoiled, her face scrunching in horror. "Why?! I mean, I would have figured you for something high-end, not..."

"It'll get the job done," he said as he fidgeted in the chair. "Can we stop talking about this now?"

"Sure, John," Joss said gently, his discomfort obvious now. "I'll follow up on your list and let Finch know if I turn up anything."

"Thanks, Joss. Hopefully I won't be out of commission that long."

"Go take care of yourself. We can handle the city for a few days."

 


	7. Chapter 7

Milk bars had been legalized in the late seventies during the Omega Rights Movement. Along with equal access to employment outside the home, and reproductive rights, omegas also gained some measure of control over how, and with whom, they passed their heat cycles. The milk bars offered a safer alternative for unbonded omegas in need of servicing and in consequence, virile alphas began making full use of these new sex markets.

Housed in a converted, turn of the century single-room-occupancy hotel in Hell's Kitchen, the World Famous Buchanan Sexual Health and Wellness Clinic, or Bucks, was a New York original. The city had forced them to remove the flashing "Walk-Ins Always Welcome" sign that used to hang above the front door, but as John exited his taxi, he noticed few other visible changes since his last visit.

A well muscled doorman was stationed at the entrance; there would be a dozen or more working inside. The man gave John a quick once over before buzzing him into the lobby where an ID and credit card passed over the old fashioned reception desk initiated his transaction.

"Mr. West," the receptionist said in a warm voice as she typed in his information, Miranda, according to her name tag. "I see it's been a while since your last visit with us. It will take a moment to pull up your current medical records. In the mean time, would you like to update your preferences or shall I book you a room based on your previous options?"

"I'll update," John said tightly. He had been in the dark grips of guilt and detox the last time he'd paid a visit.

"Very good, sir." She smiled up at him then swiped the card. While his payment processed, Miranda pulled a tablet from a shelf behind her and tapped her employee authorization code onto the touch screen.

"Here we go," she said, presenting him with the device. "This works just like our old look-books. You can set your parameters here at the top: male, female, age, race, build, et cetera. The app matches you with the omegas we have on-site today. You just swipe, like this..."

"I think I've got it."

"Certainly, sir," she said demurely and pulled her hands away. She left him to his selections as she reseated herself and continued with his reservation.

While she typed and John swiped, they were joined by a second staff member. The slender figure dressed in shapeless white medical scrubs walked over to the reception desk.

"Mr. West, my name is Alex and I'll be your personal host for your stay. If you'll follow me," Alex said in a husky voice that was at odds with their delicate facial features and slim figure.

John followed the staffer from reception to a private receiving room where the host gestured towards the plush sofa for John.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Alex asked. "Staminade, water?"

"I'm fine," John answered and placed the tablet on the table in front of him. "I'd like to move on to the selection."

"But, of course." Alex took the chair next to the sofa and picked up the preference tablet. "I see you're open in your choices," Alex said, swiping through the option generated lists. "Might I suggest we narrow your selections?"

"I don't really care who I get, I just..." John stopped short. That wasn't true. He had a very clear list of who he'd like to pass rut with, but his list was mere fantasy. In real life, he could get the job done with any of the men or women on the tablet.

Alex nodded and began ticking more boxes on the form. "Was 2011 your last full rut?"

"Yes."

"Have you have regular access to an omega since then?"

John cleared his throat and shook his head.

"Suppressants?"

"Occasionally. Usually I just ride it out."

A look of sadness crossed Alex's face before the next question came. "Do you have a preference for natural heat or induced?"

"What's the difference?"

"In most cases there is no difference. Most of our omegas are in chemically induced heat and most of our clients are fine with that. We also service a few select clients who can tell the difference, or have allergic reactions to the estrusazen process. For them we maintain a small stable of natural omegas. An omega in natural heat would require some additional paperwork and... there is a substantial price difference."

"Pup support?"

Alex nodded. This was one of the rarely talked about aspects of the milk bars. Unlike a traditional brothel catering to betas, reproduction was the driving force behind omega heat and alpha rut. Pups were the natural consequence.

"I don't have any allergies as far as I know."

"Excellent. Now, we have several packages available. Our standard three day in-house service, room and meals included, out call services, at additional cost -and pending the results of your background check. We also offer specialty services. Since it's been awhile for you, I'd suggest the Double O Heaven, two omegas and a five day stay."

"Standard is fine," John bit out.

"You can always change your order later," Alex said with a knowing smile then made a final entry on the tablet before handing it back to John. "They'll be in shortly. I think we've got a good group for your selection."

After a few minutes the receiving room door opened and the omegas, all barefoot and dressed in identical white smocks, walked in. While John had noted the sterile, antiseptic smell of the facility from the moment he walked in, along with the bland beta scents Miranda and Alex gave off, his body reacted instantly to the overwhelming heat and charge to the air as the omegas filed into the room.

Now he could see the results of Alex's additional questions. His selections had been narrowed to seven. None conformed to the fantasy image that most alphas maintained of the small, docile omega. His group was a mix of men and women, each tall, athletic, and sturdy. Seven years was a long time to go between full blown ruts.

John stood and crossed the room to begin his inspection. The first pass was easy, a matter of scent compatibility. Each omega presented their neck to him as he went down the line. Alex had been right, John's olfactory sense was not so sensitive. As he inhaled at the skin over their emitter glands, he could only smell warm, willing, heat and he wanted to drown in it.

It wasn't until he reached the fourth omega, a young man in his early 30s John guessed, that he experienced a physical reaction. He pulled the man out of the line up, noting the firm feel of young muscle under his hand, and nudged him to turn around. The smock was tied loosely in the back; John slipped his finger under the top stay and flicked it open, baring the skin beneath and the stronger scented bonding glands which lay between the shoulder blades.

John's cock throbbed as he caught the boy at the hip and pulled him back against him. The omega arched beneath him as John's rough beard tickled over his skin. Chemically induced or not, he smelled receptive and compatible. The boy's anticipation and arousal mingled together with his heat and filled John's head with wanton images of taking him hard and deep.

John pulled his nose away and finished with a long slide of his hand over the boy's back and down to his firm ass.

"What's your name?" he asked, turning the omega to face him.

He stood fully relaxed, his eyes modestly downcast. "Jiro."

John cupped his hand under Jiro's jaw and lifted his his head. He was a handsome boy with short cropped black hair, soft against John's fingertips, and piercing eyes framed with long lashes. John brushed his thumb over the boy's lips and Jiro caught it, holding John's gaze as he sucked his thumb inside.

John groaned and fed him more of the finger. Jiro was not Zoe or Joss or Iris or, in John's wildest fantasies, Harold, but the boy could suck and John had no doubt he could fuck. He withdrew his thumb slowly, trailing the wet digit over Jiro's lips.

"He'll do," John rasped, his voice catching as his omega dropped down to his knees beside him with his hand cupped against John's inner thigh.

"Of course, Mr. West," Alex replied and signaled the other omegas to exit. "Jiro is one of our most highly rated omegas. We've prepared a room for you. You'll find everything waiting, but if you need supplies, or any additional services, just press #7 on the house phone and I'll make the arrangements for you."

John nodded sharply. As was the norm, his omega was still fully covered by the thin smock, but he was already pushing the boundaries of most public conventions as he nuzzled his smooth cheek against John's bulged trouser front and caressed his talented fingers up John's leg. John was eager to get his omega up to the room.

"If you'll sign here," Alex said, passing the tablet over. John gave the release form a perfunctory read before scrawling West's signature. As he handed the document back, his phone rang.

"Fuck!" John growled and yanked his phone from his pocket. "What?"

"Rude. I'm calling for Harry anyway, not you. He's not answering his phone."

With a hard discipline honed over many years, John dropped a hand to Jiro's head to still the boy then marched towards a corner of the small office to take the call. "What do you mean not answering?"

"Really, John," Root said impatiently. "I got his message. I'm assuming since you both went 'do not disturb' you're on another of your little numbers. Just let me talk to him, I have a question about the Machine."

"He's not with me. What did his message say?"

There was a slight pause on the line. "He sent a text: Went home early, please walk Bear. Reese is away on personal business – do not disturb. -H."

John tried to make sense of the message. Maybe Finch was sick and trying to hide it? That would definitely explain his behavior this morning.

"Well, he's not with me. Have you tried his Wren numbers?"

"Not yet. I have to say, I am surprised he didn't call you first about whatever it is that sent him home."

John ignored the mocking tone of her voice. "What's wrong with the Machine?"

"Nothing's wrong, she's just throwing up an error message on the new algorithms he installed yesterday. I was hoping for some quick debugging help."

"Is she still operational?"

"The Machine is fine, John. I'll try Wren's phone and if that doesn't pan out, the debug will just have to wait."

"Call me if anything else comes up, okay?"

"Sure."

John disconnected the call and sent Finch a text.
    
    
    R u ok?

On the other side of the receiving room, Jiro had moved to kneel beside the sofa. He flashed a shy smile at John and John groaned in frustration.

There was no return text. Sick, or a bad pain day made sense, but this was Finch he was talking about and he couldn't eliminate the side investigation into the fish market, or Elias and his chess game, from the list of possibilities.

Jiro had climbed up onto the sofa now, elbows and knees sinking into the cushions, the smock falling open slightly as the omega dropped his head and began tracing the outline of where John had earlier sat.

"Is everything alright, Mr. West?" Alex asked politely.

"Something came up at work. Give me a minute," John answered, his voice thick as he watched Jiro lower his upper body down to the seat cushion. The motion hitched the back of the smock even higher, revealing more of the omega's compactly muscled thighs.

Dammit, Finch! John wrenched his eyes away. He jabbed his thumb over the screen and dialed the number to the blind call service from memory. If Finch had gone off to work the fish market or some other number on his own, he would have left word for John at the drop, but when the call connected, there were no messages.

Jiro stretched his long body down on the cushions and rested his head on his folded arms as he waited for John to take him upstairs.

Root had said the Machine was all right and Finch was an adult. He'd notified the team. If he wanted to take the day off, who was he to question him? John was just about to turn his phone off when a thought struck him.

Finch had notified the team – just like he'd left the auto-message for Root before he and John left the library yesterday to meet Elias' car. And, Finch had switched his regular glasses for a nearly identical pair of tagged glasses, 'just in case', Finch had said.

Was he _still_ wearing the tracker? John tapped open the GPS app and four targets appeared: Bear and Shaw, his collar and her phone, four blocks from the library, Root's phone at the library, and Finch, a pulsing blue dot deep in the outer boroughs of Brooklyn.

"Mr. West?"

John ignored the host as he called Finch directly. After three rings came the voicemail beep.

Why the hell was Finch all the way across the city? All of his safe houses were either on the island, or easily accessible by car. According to the tracker, Finch was a good hour and a half away from the Library.

John tucked the phone back into his pocket. If Finch need a day off, fine, but his location and radio silence had sent up too many red flags. "Listen," John said, turning back toward Alex and Jiro, "I need to reschedule."

"I'm sorry?"

"Something came up." John's face softened as he saw the crestfallen look on Jiro's face. "Sorry," John said, addressing the promise to his omega.

"Your session is non-refundable, Mr. West. I can reschedule, but it will cost, and I can't guarantee Jiro's availability."

"I still have to go. You've got my card, charge whatever you have to," he said on his way out the door.

 


	8. Chapter 8

He tried Finch by phone again on the taxi ride from Bucks back to his own car. Again there was no answer and the call went to voicemail after two rings.

Dammit, Finch, John muttered as he readjusted himself through his pants and yanked open the car door. He mounted his phone and tracking app to the dash and set his legs wide over the seat for the long drive to Brooklyn. His first priority now was to find Harold, the rest would hold just a few hours more.

Samaritan, Greer, and the government were no longer threats, that eliminated one plausible reason why Harold would have left the library and gone silent. However, as John recalled with painful clarity, Harold wasn't above trying to sacrifice himself if he thought he could save the Machine or his team.

That put Samaritan, Greer, and the government back on the table.

John pressed his foot to the gas.

He tapped his earpiece and started to voice dial Root, but his voice fell away with another recollection. She'd forced Harold away from the library and out of contact twice.

Two times he'd thought he might lose his partner.

And after two times, Harold still let her in.

Root was off the table but he wasn't ready to bring her or Shaw in on this yet. Instead, John opened up another line of thought: Harold really was sick. Or, his neck or back or hip or leg pain was more than the low dose meds he'd insisted on while continuing the Machine rebuild could handle.

John could only guess at how little sleep Harold was getting these days and he felt a tightness in his chest. There was a time when he could have answered that question, when he would have known.

How had their connection fallen apart so completely over the last two years?

John put his head down and skilled his way through the traffic. He followed the tracking app's blue dot across Midtown and down to the Brooklyn Bridge, past Carroll Gardens, through South Slope and then onto Ocean Parkway where the rough potholes jostled him in his seat.

He let out a low groan. The priority mission was momentarily pushed aside and in its place, a flash of regret over Jiro's warm mouth and tight body, and the ache of frustration still swelling in his balls. John gripped the steering wheel and exhaled then leaned back into the driver's seat and inhaled through his nose, filling his lungs with a deep breath. The interior of the car was heavy with his own musk and he breathed it in slowly.

Then out.

Then in.

Then out.

The GPS routed him into the Ditmas Park neighborhood and onto the main strip with its pharmacies and grocery stores. John made a left hand turn and found himself driving past soccer fields and deeper into a heavy canopy of tree-lined suburbia.

Tidy green lawns fronted the rows of detached, two-story houses. John downshifted to the speed limit and slowly rolled through the neighborhood, past the houses and housewives with their strollers, the branch library, elementary school, and corner church. He pulled to a stop at the intersection and waited while the mail-carrier pushed her cart across.

John glanced over at his phone. The tracking dot sat stationary on the screen and he was nearly there.

The mail carrier waved her thanks and John returned it before proceeding through the intersection toward a nondescript two-story house on the right. Brow furrowed, John parked directly in front of it. He took a moment to readjust his trousers then stepped out of the car for a closer look.

A simple iron fence separated the house from the sidewalk. Behind the gate, a decorative stone path, lined with bright and fragrant daffodils, cut through the green yard and up to the front steps. John unlatched the gate and stepped inside.

As he walked the pathway to the porch, John scanned the house for any signs of Finch. The shades were drawn down over all of the windows. He climbed the steps and rattled the front door handle. Much as he expected, the door was locked. John frowned and tapped his earpiece to dial. A moment later he heard Finch's distinctive ring tone coming from inside the house. It rang two, three, four times and Finch picked up.

"Open the door."

There was a long pause before Finch answered in a hoarse voice. "Please go away, Mr. Reese. I'm quite all right."

"I'm sure you are," John said as he peered through the window. "Just open the door."

"You should go."

"But it was such a long drive over. I'll stay."

Through the earpiece he heard Finch groan. John walked back down the steps and shielded his eyes against the sun before looking up to scope the shaded top floor windows. "What's the entry code, Finch?"

Silence, but the line was still open.

"I make a killer chicken noodle soup," John said, casting a slow eye over the quiet outer-borough neighborhood, his anxiety rising.

"John," Finch wheezed, "please go away."

John stood in the middle of the walkway and addressed his words to the high windows. "That's not inspiring confidence, Finch. In fact, you telling me to go away makes me want to find a comfy spot on your front steps, stretch my legs, and wait you out. I might even talk to your neighbors while I'm out here."

There was no movement from the windows or response over the line. John made his way around to the side of the house and found the side door was locked as well. "It's a beautiful day. I'm sure somebody has a dog to walk or groceries to bring in. Don't worry about me out here, I'll keep myself busy until you let me in."

There was another groan, followed by a low thud. John stopped and glanced up to the top floor windows.

"Must you _always_ be so pertinacious, Mr. Reese?"

"So, that's what it's called?" John said, long lashes fluttering closed in relief as the conversation resumed. He wasn't above smashing his way inside and apologizing later if it came to that. He'd prefer it if Finch just opened the door. He kept Finch talking while he knelt down to test the low basement windows.

"If you're sick enough to call off work, you're sick enough to see a doctor. And if you won't see a doctor, at least see me."

The basement windows were also locked tight. John straightened up, a hand at his back as he stretched out the beginnings of a muscle cramp. He ran his hand down to resettle his still slowly softening cock and thought again about the afternoon he'd originally lined up for himself. Trying to break into one of Finch's safe houses had been nowhere on that to-do list.

He let out a frustrated sigh and moved on to the backyard which was shaded by a tall mulberry tree, heavy with fruit and surrounded by a tall wooden privacy fence. The yard was tranquil and John took a moment to breathe in the sweet aroma of ripe fruit and green grass.

A bright flash high in the tree caught his eye and he stepped out on the grass for a closer look. It was a fat cardinal. The bird's bright red crest was camouflaged against the berries until he walked further out on the drooping limb. The cardinal cocked his head to look down at John a moment before letting out a loud, clear chirping whistle.

From another branch on the other side of the tree came an answering song and the quiet was shattered.

"What kind of sick are you?" John asked as he walked back to the front of the house. "Pain? A cold? Food Poisoning?"

"I'm not sick, Mr. Reese," Finch grumbled in his ear.

"Let me in so I can see for myself," John said gently as he remounted the steps to the porch. He pulled the stack of mail out of the box then hitched his pants and settled down on the top step.

"Harold _Grebe_. That's a new one. It's like a duck, right?" he asked as he rifled through the sales circulars and cable TV offers.

"Not really," came the reply after a while. "They are both water fowl, true, but..." Finch let out a sharp gasp which was followed by another thud. "Grebes are more closely related to flamingos," he finished with a breathless grunt.

John went still as he puzzled over the strange noises and Finch's strained voice. Finally, the long silence was broken.

"Mr. Reese?" 

"Yes, Finch?"

"Please bring the mail in with you."

The phone line went dead and the front door lock clicked open.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The scent hit John as soon as he stepped inside and his reaction was visceral and automatic. He staggered back against the door frame. Nostrils flared, he swept his eyes over the foyer and the living room beyond. The lingering memory of Jiro's pleasantly manufactured scent dissipated under the full force of the heated pheromones flooding the house.

John dismissed the treasure trove of information on display here in this previously unknown safe house as he closed and locked the door behind him.

"Finch?" he called cautiously as he stalked through the living room. "I'm coming up to you, okay?"

He chucked the junk mail on a side table and followed the scent like a homing beacon. It was coming from upstairs. John gripped the back of a sofa as he passed, slowing himself. The scent was dizzying as he approached the staircase. He willed himself to take the creaking stairs one at a time. The last thing Finch needed was John barreling up and crashing into his bedroom.

"I'm on the landing," he rasped. He stopped and leaned against the wall. Eight more steps and he would be on Finch and he wanted to warn him; a locked door would do neither of them any good at this point. Breathing through his mouth, John tried to slow his pounding heart and the instinct to bolt those last steps.

The air grew heavier as he crept forward, thick with Finch's ripe scent. Years of military training had tempered his reactions to nature's pungent calling card, but John had pushed himself too close to the edge with this rut cycle and as he eased over the floorboards towards the open door at the end of the hallway, he couldn't deny his biological response.

His body trembled with need as he stepped inside Finch's warm bedroom. The sight that met his eyes stopped him short and his knees buckled.

Harold sat slumped on the floor against the foot of his rumpled bed, facing the door and naked except for the white sheet wrapped over his chest and thighs. His bare face, oddly vulnerable looking without his glasses, was damp with sweat, hair slicked against his scalp. Next to him, resting atop a large sheet of plastic lay an overturned mechanical contraption, about two foot by two foot. A power cable snaked out of the back end of the thing while a long piston arm jutted from the front and attached to the free end was a slender pink dildo.

"Satisfied?" Harold hissed. His mortification writ large over his face.

"You're... not sick," John rasped as he pressed his back against the door.

"I never said I was, Mr. Reese."

The air was too warm, and Finch's scent too potent: fresh sweat, tinged with the vital tang of iron, laced with hints of musk, and all of it cut through by an unmistakable skewer of fear that lit his wide eyes.

John took a deep breath and a shaky step into the bedroom; the pheromones were overwhelming at this range.

"Root, Shaw...me. How did you keep this secret? How did we miss the scent?"

"The best suppressants money can buy. Until they fail," Finch spat out, turning his head away from John's approach.

John bit back a low groan. His cock was hard and it tented the front of his suit obscenely. He closed in on Finch until he was towering over him. "Stand up, Harold," he croaked as he offered a hand down to the seated omega. "Let me help you."

An omega in heat was a carefully cultivated physiologic incitement, evolved over millennia for the sole purpose of attracting a mate and reproducing. Hormonal symbiosis, the scientists called it, and like any intact alpha, John was powerless against its call.

Harold gave a piteous moan and clutched desperately to the sheet as John manhandled him to his feet. John let out a choked cry as Finch's scent flooded his nostrils. He fought his raw urge to rip the sheet away from Finch's body, throw him down to the bed and take him right then and there.

"You don't have to do this alone," John said tightly, holding himself rigidly still. He wrapped his arms around Finch's quaking body. "There... are techniques. I can help, but you have to trust me."

John brushed one hand through Harold's damp hair and down to the curve of his neck, and splayed the other over Finch's exposed back. He could smell his omega's distress wafting along the edges of his arousal. His hard alpha cock throbbing, and lodged rudely against Harold's belly, John slowly caressed his rough hand down. "Do you trust me, Harold?"

Harold dropped his eyes in defeat. John took the gesture as acceptance of the inevitable.

"See? That wasn't so bad," John murmured gently.

Trapped in his arms, Harold sobbed. "This isn't how I wanted it."

"It's just me, Finch. I'm not going to hurt you," John whispered and dipped his head to nose along the curve of Harold's neck. He marked the change in his omega's scent. The sour undertone of fear was evaporating, leaving behind an intoxicating rich velvet of want.

Harold's soft sobs gradually gave way to needy mewls as he dropped his head to John's chest.

"That's it," John whispered raggedly as he nuzzled at Harold's neck. He brought both hands up to Harold's shoulders and slowly swept his fingers down and through the soft dark hair that furred his arms, up to his hands. Finger by finger, John loosened Harold's grip on the sheet until the fine cotton fell to the floor between them.

Harold dropped his hands to his sides and John swallowed hard.

He'd never seen Harold completely naked before. Of course he'd stolen glances when opportunity allowed. Early mornings in the library after a long night of work, when Harold emerged from the crash room, or the occasional field job that required costumes. He'd kept all of those stolen looks locked away in his memory and the fantasy image he'd assembled from the pieces was no match to the real thing.

For an older man with his injuries, Harold was still in surprisingly good physical shape, a bit soft around the middle but who wasn't at their age. John traced his eyes over the pelt of thick but graying brown hair that covered Harold's chest and tapered only slightly before blooming in full to the dark curls framing his small omega cock and balls, and the treasure hidden just below.

John took a step forward and cupped the firm globes of Harold's ass for a moment before sinking his fingers and riding the hot, and unexpectedly dry crevice between them. He fingered over Harold's clenched anus and then up and around to find the second, even tighter opening.

"How long has it been?" he asked hoarsely as he smoothed the surprisingly scant secretions against his omega's sweet pussy.

"I haven't had a heat cycle in nearly a decade," Harold whimpered, and John felt his body go tense in his arms.

"It's okay," John soothed and brushed his lips over Harold's head. "It's been nearly that long for me too." John exhaled and slid his intrusive fingers away from his prize to grip over Harold's hips. "Once the heat cycle begins it can only end in one of two ways. Tell me what you want. The toys?" he offered with a barely contained growl and a hard, involuntary jerk of his cock.

"Or your knot?" Harold said with an air of weary understanding.

"No!" John startled and loosened his hold of Harold. "Not if... not if you don't want it..."

"I let you into the house, Mr. Reese," Harold said, placing his hands on the lapels of John's jacket and lifting his wide eyes to meet John's for the first time. " _What_ if I do?"

"What if I breed you?" John choked, rocking his hips forward until he felt Harold's cock brushing against his through the strained material of his pants.

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm well beyond breeding age."

"But you're in mating heat?"

"...There are other considerations," Harold said slowly. "I don't mean to force you into _anything_ you don't want to do, Mr. Reese, but it has been ... a very long time and, as you so reasonably noted, this only ends one of two ways. If this afternoon was any indication, I can't ride this one out on my own."

That Harold thought he was forcing anything on him right now was laughable. From the moment he'd scented Harold, John had known with a base certainty that he would lay claim to the omega. His omega. That Harold was both willing and non-fertile was a small blessing.

Shame stabbed through John's thoughts. He didn't have to guess _why_ Harold passed as a beta. Root, Shaw, Carter, Fusco, and himself were five good reasons. Beyond that, the extended support crew of Silva, Wells, Harper, Grice, and Brooks, hell, even Bear and Leon Tao. Expressing as an omega would be dangerous enough in itself; John didn't have to put much thought into what any of the less friendly types would do to him.

His lips tightened as he followed the pattern. Harold, with his gifts, would have been masking his true nature from the moment his first omega heat bloomed. And he had chosen long term suppressants over the permanent surgical solutions of getting himself snipped, or having his receptor glands removed.

He understood the need to hide, but there were easier ways to get through a heat. Milk bars would service anyone for a price. He smoldered at the thought of what a rutting alpha could do to a needy natural omega.

John hooked his hands over Harold's hips and tugged him close. "You don't have to do this on your own," he croaked, his scruffy beard scraping against Harold's cheek. He brushed his lips over the sweat damp curls just behind Harold's ear, then further down his neck to the source of the heady pheromones. Harold lay his head on John's chest and trembled under his touch.

"You don't need toys, or some other alpha," John husked, his heart racing as his hands roamed from Harold's hips to the curve of his ass, to the soft handholds of his waist. "I'll take care of you."

Harold's scent permeated the air around them and John could practically taste his rising anxiety. He had every right to be afraid, John thought bitterly. He skimmed his hands up Harold's back, crushing the smaller omega against him as he breathed him in greedily, his cock grinding hard against the naked man's soft skin. Heat sex was savage, a biological throwback that could turn even the most patient alpha into... something less friendly.

He exhaled slowly, gave in to the all too familiar instinct to protect his Finch and loosened his hold.

"Omega No. 5," Harold gasped as he lifted his nose away from John's jacket and stumbled backward over the thick plastic drop sheet. "It's a popular brand...and once again I've intruded on your happiness."

John's brow furrowed in confusion. Nothing would make him happier right now than sinking hisaching cock into a heat-slick omega. It wasn't until Harold took another step in retreat and dragged the back of his hand over his mouth that the stinging realization hit.

Jiro.

The boy's scent still clung to John's clothes.

"No, no, no!" John cried as he tore out of the jacket and flung it aside before stalking back towards his true omega. "I need this. You need this. We'll figure the rest out later."

"John..."

"No more talking," John rasped and started on his shirt next, fingers flying over the buttons. "Do you want it here on the floor or the bed?"

Harold narrowed his eyes. He drew his chin up. His cheeks bloomed.

It was too late to recall the crude words. John vowed silently that he would apologize later, but he knew Harold almost as well as he knew himself and the last two years were a testament to how easily self-sacrifice came to them both.

Harold stood his ground.

John met his anger with icy calm. Harold knew just as well as he did that there was no turning back from this point. The bed, or the floor - it was an easy question and Harold was just wasting time. He leaned forward, brazenly invading Harold's personal space, and tilted his head in challenge. He waited.

He saw the fight drain out of Harold until, at last he mumbled, "The bed."

"Good choice," John said with a slight tip of his head. After this was finished, after Harold was good and knotted, after he'd extinguished his own burning needs –after– he would make things right again.

Harold shuffled past him and the overturned machine on his way to the messy four poster bed. He kept his back to John, hiding his face as he collected the thick pillows from the headboard to fashion a back and neck rest for himself. His careful posture collapsed as he asked softly, "How do you want me?"

"On your back to start," John answered, his throat tight as he pushed back another twinge of remorse. He yanked his undershirt over his head, then snapped open his belt and unhooked his holster. He kicked out of his shoes, pants, back-up gun, knife, socks and underwear. There would be regrets and recriminations later -how could there not- but as he stepped over his discarded clothes and grabbed his holstered gun from the foot of the bed, John was a-okay with putting those problems off for another day.

He followed Harold to the bed and set his gun on the nightstand. He'd never imagined actually bedding Finch, yet here he was, moments away from sealing the deal and the full implications fell into place. Most omega's Harold's age would already be bound to a life mate and bred many times over. Realistically, John knew he had no room in his life for a mate, or pups, not like normal people. But in a sense, Finch was already a mate. Finch kept him fed, clothed, and safe and in turn, he protected Finch. Sex, John reasoned, wasn't that far a stretch.

He took a deep breath, counted to ten while he watched Harold climb up onto bed. The vinyl mattress pad beneath the sheets crackled under the omega's weight as he gingerly arranged himself atop the pillows in a position that left him completely open and exposed.

John reassessed his earlier opinion about Harold's physical condition. He saw the scars now. The pale skin, seared and puckered over his back and hip. The ferry bombing had left permanent evidence of its destruction on his rough mended body.

Harold closed his eyes and turned his head away. With an unfamiliar shyness that warred with his impatient need to claim his omega, John eased his naked body down onto the sheets. He arranged himself cautiously on hands and knees, trapping Harold beneath him.

It's almost the same thing, John repeated to himself. His job was to protect Finch.

He held still for a moment, giving Harold time to get used to his scent and weight. He dropped his head in the crook of Harold's neck. How in the hell had he missed it! Under the modifying chemicals and body washes, Harold's omega scent had been there all along. Then and now, layered in with the mix of sensual pheromones was the constant note of Harold's natural, calming scent.

Hunched down over the omega, John felt the heat of Harold's body at every point of contact. He inched his head slightly and pressed a kiss to his warm skin, then another. He fluttered a line of gentle kisses over Harold's neck and down his throat where he lingered for a while as Harold's shallow breaths vibrated against his lips.

"It'll be easier if you don't fight it," John said softly.

"Easier for you if I just lie here like a good little omega, Mr. Reese?"

John sighed. He pressed a chaste kiss to the base of Harold's throat then raised his eyes. "If it counts for anything, this isn't how I wanted it either, Finch."

"Of course not," Harold snorted. "In your shoes, I'd be the last omega I'd choose too."

"Then you would be a fool," John said sadly.

He could only imagine the humiliation of being caught out in the middle of a heat. Harold prized his dignity. John would have to take his time to overcome Harold's stubborn resistance if he wanted any chance of getting inside his sweet omega without hurting him. He'd make Finch enjoy this.

John's cock, already leaking pre-come, bounced and dragged against Harold's body, marking the omega with his scent as he moved lower to explore the hard pink nubs set in the soft tangle of the omega's chest hair. It was an impressive thicket and John was struck by the idea that Harold kept this hidden every day under his crisply tailored suits.

Beneath him, Harold squirmed, lining his hips with John's and John heard the shift in his breathing as he caught one of Harold's nipples in his teeth and rolled it against his tongue. John wantonly humped his cock against Harold's leg and groaned his pleasure against the fleshy padding surrounding the worried nipple.

Harold let go of a soft moan and cradled a hand at the base of John's neck to guide the alpha's greedy mouth. John breathed him in, rocking his cock against Harold's, lapping his rough tongue over the hard nipples in turn. He paced himself, casting languid kisses down Harold's chest, the soft hair tickling against his lips, over the paunch of his belly, the dip of his belly button. Harold stretched himself over the pillows and massaged his fingertips against John's scalp, purring his contentment with John's slow mouth and hands.

John felt the raised scars of Harold's injuries against his fingertips and traced the rough lines from flank to hip as he followed the intoxicating trail to his prize. He pushed a hand between Harold's thighs. Harold's massaging fingers stilled.

"Are you okay?" John asked in a husky whisper, lifting his eyes to look up over Harold's body to meet the omega's wide eyes.

"I'm fine. Just... do it."

John let out an exasperated breath. He swept his hands over Harold's thighs and pried them open. The omega's cock jutted hard against the field of dark curls and the tip glistened with seedless omega slick. John edged past the base and the plum sized balls to brush the pad of his thumb against Harold's pussy.

"Not yet," John whispered, stroking through the silky slick juices coating the soft folds. Harold's body was beginning to respond, but this precious flow wasn't nearly enough for the hard entry to come. "You need to relax. You're not ready," John said as he teased the tip of his thumb inside.

Harold's thighs quivered at the slight intrusion and he drew his knees up. "There's lube," he gasped, "somewhere on the floor."

"Uh-huh," John murmured as he settled his wide shoulders between Harold's outstretched legs. With his thumb set shallow, John lowered his head and nosed through the coarse brown bush encircling Harold's tight hole. He flicked his tongue at the sensitive juncture of omega cock and balls, and when he heard Harold's tormented groan, he did it again. He teased his way higher, gliding his pursed lips along Harold's cocklet until he reached the tip, then, in one slow pass, he took Harold into his mouth.

The taste was pure bliss, a feast for a man starved. John sucked him deep, wet, and hot. He put his CIA special training to use, from base to tip and back again, until Harold clutched at his hair to hold his bobbing head in place. John's swollen lipped curiosity was satisfied a moment later when Harold slowly thrust his cock into the alpha's wet mouth.

They set up a lazy rhythm to start, with Harold's hips and stuttered gasps of pleasure setting the beat. Bit by bit John screwed his thumb in up to the second joint and once he was well seated in the pulsing heat, he swapped his mouth for his hand on Harold's slick cock and focused his attentions lower.

On the surface, there was still no way John would fit easily. The suppressants had dulled Harold's natural arousal cycle. By now his vaginal walls should have been flooded with a deluge of viscous fluids to ease penetration. John briefly considered detaching the slender pink dildo from the machine and using it to open Harold up. Then, with an irrational flash of anger, he imagined Harold crouched uncomfortably on all fours in front of the fucking machine trying to pass this heat without him.

While nature was slow on the uptake, Harold's body understood stimulation and when John traced a wet path along the delicate folds of his tight hole, stretched open around John's teasing thumb, the omega responded.

"Oh, dear god," Harold cried, squeezing his legs against John's shoulders. His breaths were loud and ragged under the dual assault of John's jerking fist on his cock and talented tongue.

"That's what I want to hear," John said in a husky whisper. He hunkered his tall body down between Harold's legs and nuzzled against his soft inner thigh's for a moment before he drew his thumb free and replaced it with his mouth alone.

Harold clutched the nape of John's neck, stiffly rolling his hips upward as John snaked his way past the tight muscles with short, sure thrusts. John worked him loose slowly, boring his tongue deep into the snug hole, sloppily lapping at the rekindled flow of clear, thick, slick until his nose was buried in Harold's short curls and John was certain he would die a happy man.

John wallowed against Harold for a long while, tongue fucking him in time to his heavy handed strokes then switching off to suck Harold off while he sank two finger **s** into his hot passage. The omega tensed at the blunt fingered intrusion and John soothed him by taking his small cock deep into his mouth. He sucked Harold with hollow cheeked abandon as he curved his probing fingers inside his wet hole until he found the omega's sweet spot, a spongy internal organ positioned behind Harold's balls. John massaged his fingertips over the sensitive bundle of nerves. He shivered at Harold's tight grip over his fingers and tried to imagine what Harold would feel like stretched wide over his knot.

Harold curled his fingers through John's hair and yielded under the alpha's mouth and fingers with a series of increasingly high pitched moans while John's cock slid, almost painfully engorged now, over the sheets, crinkling the plastic beneath. He was ready to drive into Harold and ride him like an animal, and he would, just as soon as he got his omega prepared.

Gasping, John pushed back against Harold's vise-like grip to free himself and gulp a lungful of heavy, pungent air. And, to steal a look up between Harold's wide spread legs and over his heaving chest, only to find Harold propped up on his forearms and cushioned against the pile of pillows, looking back down his body at John.

Harold's face was flushed, eyes wide with surprise and lips parted. His body glistened with sweat. John swallowed hard at the sight.

"I think I'm ready," Harold said, his words hitched.

"You're still too tight."

"I believe that's the appeal. I'm assuming you're larger than two fingers?"

John's eyes narrowed at the peevish tone. He was taking his time for Harold's benefit. He didn't want to hurt his omega, but Harold was right, his hard cock and thick knot were substantially larger than his tongue, or fingers, or the slender pink dildo. John pushed himself up to his knees to give Harold a full view of what was coming.

The foreplay had been for Harold's benefit but John was just as affected. His fleshy cock bounced majestically as he rose. Fat droplets of pre-come slicked the wide head. John fisted his meaty length and Harold shook his head in dismay.

"I... I can't..."

"Yes you can."

"No..."

"Shhh...." John had made his point and he let go of his desperately hard cock and lowered his hands to graze gently over Harold's soft inner thighs. "It's just like riding a bike."

Harold looked at him in horror.

A shadow of panic ran through John. "You have...ridden a bike before?"

"Yes! I've ridden a damned bike before! Now would you please just..." Harold paused and took a deep breath, nipples standing pink and taut over his chest like hard candies. "Please."

"It'll be easier if you roll over," John murmured as he stroked Harold, his wide hand running the length of Harold's cock and down to dip into his wet pussy and when he pulled away, Harold's juices webbed slick between his fingers. He grinned and sucked his fingers into his mouth.

"And if I want...to see you?" Harold asked, watching John slide his wet fingers free with rapt attention.

John gave a wry smile and waggled his eyebrows. "You think we're only doing this once?"

The corner of Harold's mouth quirked up. "You have a point."

Without any further complaints, Harold carefully rolled onto his stomach and positioned his hips over the pillows. Instinct took over from there. Harold planted his knees open on the bed and dropped his shoulders to assume a lordosis pose, ass and pussy on display. His slick ran freely, glistening on his inner thighs and soaking the sheets, signaling his compliance as he presented himself to his alpha.

John moved in behind him to line his meaty head against Harold's sopping wet hole. A hard shudder ran down his spine. Harold's scent and the hot musk of sex saturated the air around them. John inhaled deeply.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Joss's flat out refusal, his lame attempts with Iris, tender, discarded Jiro –a series of missteps that all righted themselves the moment John drove inside with a hard, insistent, slick smoothed stroke.

"Ohh!" Harold gasped. His hot omega pussy clamped down over John deliciously and the omega rolled his body as far as he could and pushed back.

Quickly, John palmed his hands over Harold's upturned ass and spread the round cheeks for a better view of his thick alpha cock sinking inch-by-inch into his omega's wet hole. He arched his back and rocked his hips forward as he disappeared inside Harold's sweet pussy until only the fat knotting glands at the base remained.

"Your doing so good," John murmured, kneading his hands into Harold's ass cheeks as he teased his knot against his omega's cock-stretched hole, setting up a rhythm of slow, shallow thrusts. He eased back further on each pass until only the fat head of his cock remained in the warm cocoon of his omega's body. Then, in one sure thrust, John was inside him again.

Harold was unbelievably tight and slick and John gave in to the deep, rocking strokes that sent Harold forward and back on his pillows. He rode him hard, harder than he should, his conscience pricked, but instinct and need pushed the thoughts aside as he rutted into the omega. Harold desperately took everything John gave him.

"You okay?" John grunted, sweat flying off of him with each wild snap of his hips and Harold answered with a muffled, yes.

The bed creaked under them. John's cock swelled inside the strained passageway. He leaned forward, changing the angle of his strokes. Harold's throaty groans ramped louder and John knew they were both close. He lowered himself, curving himself over Harold's back until his lips brushed over the bonding glands at the top of Harold's back and the curve of his knot edged against Harold's omega pussy.

John let out a feral growl against Harold's sweat damp skin as the knot caught and with one last hard jerk of his hips, he forced it inside. Locked in tight, he came, flooding Harold's receptive body with his fertile seed.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Propelled at nearly eleven miles per hour, John's semen surges into Harold's receptive vaginal vault. The ejaculate teems with a thousand million microscopic spermatozoa, the smallest cells in the human body —and the alpha's knot is locked in, stoppering the entrance. Suspended in the creamy semen plasma, rich in nutrients and enzymatic protection for the long journey ahead, the sperm, each genetically encoded with a single objective, hurtle head-over-tail forward into the breech.

The vagina is an active antagonist. The semen provides transport, but only the barest defense against its harsh, acidic environment. Many will die here within minutes, and even more over the next few hours.

For the survivors, the journey has just begun. They make a mad, dangerous push for the cervix, a narrow opening, perched high on the back wall of the vagina. During anestrus, the non-fertile period between an omega's estrus cycle, access to the cervix is blocked, but when an omega goes into heat, the body signals the gates open.

Clear, stretchy tendrils of fertile cervical fluid act as a rescue ladder, guiding the sperm up to the next leg of its journey. This alkaline mucus rinses away the seminal fluid and activates the biochemical changes that will extend the sperm's life by days and enable them to continue their voyage through the omega's reproductive system. At first glance, the cervix provides a much needed break from the horrors of the vagina, but this relief comes at a price and is fraught with its own dangers.

Strong, lucky, wily, unpredictable, or strategic -each healthy sperm plays to its genetic advantage as it dodges the treacherous crags of the cervical canal. Many are lured into its labyrinth of blind alleys and crypts. Others fall prey to fatigue. The cervix is a killing field.

There are even more perilous challenges ahead.

Stripped of their protective seminal armor, it is now time to swim. This is a race to the finish. To live means traversing the treacherous open waters of the uterus towards one of the two oviducts at the top, where a decision to swim left or right will seal the sperm's fate.

Tail and head thrashing furiously, the sperm sprint across the fertile uterine membrane, bound for destiny. However, the uterus is designed to nurture embryos not sperm, and the immune response to these invaders is immediate and deadly. Vicious hunting packs of white blood cells attack. What had once been a multitude dwindles to a few hardy thousand.

Chemotaxis, a biological response to the egg's chemical attractants, guides those that remain to the uterotubal junction, a narrow connection point between the uterus and the oviducts. The omega's body is selective. The traits that helped the sperm make it this far give way to a new set of requirements as the junction rejects the chemically incompatible, the erratic swimmers, the outliers. Less than a hundred in total will make it into the Fallopian tubes and the hidden eggs inside.

After the long trek, completed in minutes for some, days for others, the Fallopian tube is a hard fought respite, providing a much needed opportunity to feed and rest. While the sperm recuperate in the calm fluids, the omega's body prepares the alpha's sperm for the final challenge: the long trek through the Fallopian tubes in search of an egg to fertilize.

The journey ends in a fruitless hunt for the sperm who have chosen the wrong route. The timing may be off for the sperm in the correct oviduct. The neat efficiency of the heat cycle accounts for all scenarios and if fertilization does not happen during the intense two to five days of repeated copulation, the omega's body will reclaim its eggs, absorb the remaining sperm, rest, and after a while, begin laying the groundwork for the next attempt.

 


	11. Chapter 11

John sank down atop Harold, spent and boneless. Blood rushed loud in his ears, his ragged breaths even louder -or maybe they were Harold's, hitched and uneven and framed between small, soft, satisfied moans. Sounds John had never heard from his usually restrained partner. Sounds he enjoyed. He wanted to keep Harold like this forever, tied fast on his knot, pinned beneath him, satiated and secure.

Harold wiggled for room under John's loose-limbed sprawl. His body clenched hard around John's knot and girth as he moved and John grunted and rolled his hips forward, his balls swinging against the omega's exposed sac and cock. They would be locked together for another ten to thirty minutes still and John's lips curved in a lazy smile at the prospect.

It was the endorphins. The air was heavy with the scent of sex and their combined pheromones and he floated on the euphoria of the post-mating high.

Carefully, he caught Harold at the curve of his hip and eased them both down to their sides. It took a few minutes of cooperative movement to arrange their closely knotted bodies before they ended with Harold supporting a leg over the sweat and come damp pillows and John's left leg and arm wrapped around Harold. He curled his right arm to halo around Harold's head, leaving him free to nuzzle along the omega's neck and shoulder until his nose rested just over the omega's bonding glands.

He could scent their sweet and earthy musk, the unbroken skin a temptation hard to resist. It would only take a bite, quick and sharp. He'd break the skin, hold tight with his teeth, a pain stimulus to release the omega's hormones into the air. He would breathe the sweet musk in, a chemical stimulus to initiate his alpha response. An unbreakable claim to keeping Harold pinned beneath him for the rest of their days, safe and satisfied.

John traced his tongue over the salty patch of skin. He scraped his teeth against the skin, testing the elasticity.

Harold gasped and jerked awkwardly in his arms. "Not that," he said as he shifted around John's knot and pressed his exposed upper back against John's chest.

John pulled off with a groan as Harold shielded himself. He scraped his beard against Harold's shoulder before tucking his chin in the crook of his neck and blowing a frustrated sigh. The bond was not his to take.

"Sorry," he whispered. Contrite, he dragged his fingers up Harold's body to strum against a hard nipple. "Feel better?"

"Immeasurably." Like a fly fully caught, Harold tangled his fingers in with John's on his chest and kissed the tips in a token of forgiveness. "You?"

"Better than I've felt in a long time," John answered, the words spilling out unfiltered.

Harold hummed his pleasure and brushed his lips across the pads of John's long fingers. "Why did you come after me?"

"I would always come for you," John answered softly, "You can't disappear with no warning and not expect me to come looking."

"I left very clear notice."

John kissed the top of his head and touched his fingers to Harold's mouth. "I called. You didn't pick up."

"I was preoccupied with other matters," Harold said before running his tongue over John's index finger.

"I can see that now." John's cock pulsed in response to the omega's ministrations. He gave a rough, throaty sigh and pressed in closer. "You forgot to switch your glasses back," he whispered against Harold's ear, "and Root wants you to call her, something about the Machine."

"Error messages?" Harold said, sounding faintly disinterested. He dropped a kiss to the palm of John's hand.

"Mmhm," John husked, fingers extended. His knot was slowly deflating and the cooling ooze of his come was beginning to escape down Harold's thigh to drizzle onto his own.

"A puzzle to keep her occupied for a while. Idle hands," he murmured, lips forming the words against John's open palm.

"Is that why you let me in? Idle hands?"

"You would have come in anyway. And even though it outlived its usefulness a long time ago, I've always liked this house."

John smiled bashfully against the soft nest of Harold's hair. "I've always liked you."

He didn't answer right away but John was too comfortable to fully acknowledge the raw edge of doubt nudging the back of his brain. Harold was an omega in heat, craving the hard plug of an alpha knot. What if Root or Shaw had found the tracker first and one of them had come knocking at Harold's door?

For an unbound omega in heat, as the intact, unblemished skin covering Harold's bonding glands confirmed, one alpha was as good as another. He was here because he got to Harold first. To think this was anything more was castles in the air.

John pressed another kiss to Harold's head. His knot had subsided. The endorphins were wearing off.

The reality of the carnal need that had drawn them together, along with his own full bladder, and the wet, sticky sheets beneath him broke through his haze. He withdrew his soft cock and slowly disentangled himself. With the physical connection broken, he rolled himself to the edge of the bed and sat up.

"I should have said something before, to save you the long drive," Harold said as he slid down to the warm spot John left behind.

"S'okay, Finch," John said with a feigned distance cultivated over years of training. He grabbed the corner of a tangled sheet and roughly wiped the drying come from his body. "Where's your bathroom?"

"You should find everything you need in there," Harold said softly, his hand over the sheets indicating one of the two doors on the opposite wall. John guessed the other led to a closet or separate dressing room, or, considering this was Finch, a hardened safe room with an escape route to the outside.

"Spare linen?"

"In the hall closet," Harold said, breathing a loud sigh. He placed a staying hand at the small of John's back. "Don't go taciturn on me, John. I was, perhaps, not clear: I'm sorry I made you drive all the way here. Sorry I made you worry after me –and that's it, no more."

"Not sorry that it was me who showed up instead of Root?"

"No," he answered firmly. "I would have preferred a different set of circumstances. Something less desperate perhaps, but I have no regrets about letting you... I'm not sorry about this."

He twisted back to look at Harold stretched out on the ruined sheets. He was mussed and flushed, his clear eyes focused on him, his hand still resting warm against his back. John dropped his chin to his chest and slid his eyes away. He and Harold were a poorly matched set of biological beggars but the omega's frank admission threatened to open the door on a world of impossibilities that John had never seriously considered. Wishful thinking, and here in Harold's too warm bedroom, reeking of sex and uncertainty and a bond fiercely withheld, was not the time or place to give in to impossible dreams because this heat _would_ pass, and then what?

"I'm going to get cleaned up," John mumbled and swallowed dryly. "Did you stock provisions?"

There was a slight pause before Harold pulled his hand away. "I have bottled water here and food in the kitchen."

"After I shower I'll change the sheets and find us something to eat."

"You don't have to go through all of that trouble."

"I do," John said as he stood on unsteady legs. "I'm starving, and I bet you are too."

He quickly found the case of water and strode across to tear open the plastic wrapping and grab two bottles. "Can I get you anything else right now?" he asked as he handed one to Finch.

"I'm fine, Mr. Reese. Go clean up. I'll take my shower after you."

John nodded and uncapped his bottle, draining it on his way to the bathroom. His muscles were loose and his mind clear. Now that he'd tasted the sweet relief of his omega, of _an_ omega, his body signaled new urges: hydration, nourishment, and rest.

He showered quickly, washing the sweat from his body. He caught his reflection as he stepped out to dry. He looked and felt well fucked. Harold's scent was trapped in the bristly hairs of his beard. He made a mental note to go easy on Harold's sweet cock and hole next time. When he came out again, a clean towel wrapped over his hips, Harold was up. Still naked, the omega was pulling a fresh bottle from the pack and when he saw John, went back to pluck out a second.

"Unfortunately, I don't have a backup wardrobe for you here."

"I'll make do," John answered as he accepted the bottle. "It's not like either of us will need to get dressed for the next few days."

"That long you think?"

John shrugged. Normally an omega had a good sense of their heat cycles. "I guess it could be shorter, a day or so. How do you feel?"

"I'm not sure," Harold said, his eyes wandering the length of John's body. "I don't think the heat has broken yet."

"Well then, we'll be here as long as it takes." John said with a grin.

"I suppose," Harold said slowly.

"I'll make it good for you," John said, the words tumbling unbidden, pained and desperate sounding to his own ears.

Harold flashed a small, bright smile. "I know, John." His mouth opened again, as if to say more before he closed his lips tight and dropped his head. He patted John's arm in reassurance and repeated the words softly, "I know." Harold turned to begin the halting walk to the shower, John's seed crusted over his inner thighs in a pornographic display that sent a hot flush of pleasure through the alpha as he took it all in.

Once the bathroom door closed behind him, John set to work on the bed. He quickly stripped the pillow covers off and tossed them aside so that he could remove the fitted sheet. He wadded the fine cotton into a rough ball and wiped the vinyl protector pad clean then left the bed to dry. In the linen closet he found four identical sets of fresh bedding. From experience John guessed that they'd each lose their fastidious inhibitions long before going through the entire stack.

The room was still ripe with the scent of their sex when he returned with the clean sheets. From the other side of the bathroom door he heard the toilet flush. Having now seen Harold naked, he had a much clearer image to match against his deductions. Next came the rush of the shower –hot, steaming, Harold stepping under the spray and letting the water rinse him clean.

If he asked to join him next time, would Harold say yes? Let John soap his tortured muscles? Wash the soft tufts of graying hair? Run his fingers through the wet pelt of his chest, and lower? He tried to visualize the experience as he made up the bed they had just shared. The shower was big enough for two. After a few rounds of mating Harold's resistance was sure to wear down.

John resolved to ask. The worst he could say was No. But if John could make it good, shake Harold loose of the notion that John was only doing his job, Harold might say Yes.

The shower was still running. He listened, imagining the hot shower spray beating over Harold's pink skin. His cock jerked in response. John smoothed the comforter down over the mattress. He would ask next time. Harold would say, Yes.

Satisfied with his work here, John left Harold to his long shower and took to the hallway to explore the downstairs of the odd suburban home. He checked the front door first. In addition to the electronic keypad, a heavy bolt lock was screwed to the frame. John brushed aside the gingham print curtain and peered out onto the grassy lawn cut through by the stone pathway lined with daffodils, and beyond that his car, conspicuous by its presence on the street where most of the other cars were snugged into driveways, parked out in front.

The elementary school must have let out, he guessed, because the sidewalk was flecked on both sides with omegas and their pups. He could just make out the sound of them through the heavy glass of the window cut into Harold's door. John puzzled over the incongruous scene as he stepped away and let the curtain fall back into place and turned his attentions back to the mission - food.

Harold Grebe kept a clean house - all of the Harold's did. He took in the soft throw rugs under his bare feet, and the cool hardwood between them. The house was lightly furnished. A matching sofa and recliner set around a wooden coffee table in the living room. He guessed by the layout that there was probably a bedroom and bath situated off the living room with three more upstairs, and a full basement underneath - a lot of house for a single man.

The thought brought back Harold's earlier comment that, while he liked it, the house had outlived its usefulness. What use could Harold have ever gotten from this house, forty-three miles and half a world away from Manhattan?

John padded across the floor to the kitchen, turning the puzzle over in his head. He was sure the answer was in Harold's past. Maybe Grace?

John knew the pretty artist, now settled in Rome and married to a poet, was a beta. John snorted and  corrected himself - she'd smelled like paints and fresh air, but he hadn't scented omega on her. He hadn't scented it on Harold either, so who could say for sure.

Had Harold bought this house with its big backyard filled with songbirds for her? For a family he'd hoped to build? Grace would have known the truth about Harold the first time they'd been intimate. Had she known and just not cared?

Not for the first time since meeting her, and hearing in her voice the love she still carried for Harold, and witnessing the depths Harold had willingly gone in order to protect her, John felt a pang. He imagined Harold and Grace had been very good together. He knew he could never fill the hole she'd left in Harold's life, but given the chance, he'd do everything in his power to make his omega happy, keep him safe, keep him satisfied.

Now that the burning frenzy of desperate need had been blunted, John decided he could really take his time for their second mating. But before that, they'd both need some food, water, and rest.

He rummaged through the cabinets to find a platter. Digging further, he turned up a canister of dried figs, and a bag of raw almonds. There was a bag of apples sitting on the counter. He pulled two out, rinsed them and loaded them onto the platter along with the rest.

In the refrigerator he found a wedge of Swiss cheese, a deli pack of turkey slices and enough fresh vegetables to open his own sandwich shop. He quickly made up two high sandwiches on wheat and added them to the platter.

The freezer was stocked with pints of salted caramel ice cream and stacks of frozen dinners. John would have preferred the raw ingredients to prepare a real meal, but he could live on frozen food; he'd lived on worse.

He was about to close the freezer when a glint of gold caught his eye. Tucked behind the ice cream was a frozen, foil wrapped chocolate bar. Left to its own choices, Harold's sweet-tooth had decidedly decadent tastes. John unwrapped the bar and snapped it in half. There was more than enough food on the platter, and the chocolate would make for a nice treat.

Satisfied, he carried the small feast back to the bedroom. Harold was out of the shower. A pale blue robe draped over his body and loosely belted, he walked barefoot over the soft carpet, cradling his phone to his ear.

"... that's my best guess based on your description. Have you tried resetting the baseline before running the debug?"

Harold glanced up from his pacing as John walked past him with the platter on his way to set it on the night stand.

"Nothing? Hmm...," he said, making a wide turn at the far bedroom wall then vectoring towards the food. "Well, Root, if anyone can figure out the problem it will be you. I am sorry I couldn't be of more help."

There was a pause. Harold pulled up next to John and began foraging through the eats. "No, no, I'm fine. Another day or so, perhaps....," he found the foil wrapped chocolate and turned to John with a smile.

"I have to go now. I'll be back to work as soon as I can...Of course...Goodbye, Ms. Groves."

"She's going to be mad when she figures it out," John said, watching as Harold flipped the phone over and removed the battery.

"Perhaps. On the other hand, she enjoys a challenge." He dropped his disassembled phone onto the writing desk and turned his attention back to the food. "You were right. I am hungry."

"I figured you might be," John said as he unwrapped the chocolate bar and snapped off a square. "Open up," he said, nudging the chocolate against Harold's lips. "Gotta' keep your strength up."

"With choc —mmmm..."

A look of pure bliss crossed Harold's face when he closed his mouth over the sweet morsel. John beamed, and as Harold savored the chocolate, John snapped another square free.

"You should have some too," Harold demurred even as John circled the candy in to his open mouth then smoothed his thumb over his closed lips.

"I will," John said, cupping his hand under Harold's working jaw while at the same time dropping his other hand to the soft belt of the robe and pulling the loose knot free. "Later."

Harold's cheeks flamed pink and John had turn his eyes away. His need had been slacked but Harold's scent was still strong and the line between need and want was delicate. He wanted to taste the chocolate on Harold's lips, wanted to catch the omega up in his arms and tuck him under the cool sheets and feed him, wanted to rut softly against Harold's soft thighs until he exhausted himself and when he recovered, take the omega long and hard for another mating.

"The bed might be more comfortable," John said as he pulled his hands away to turn the blankets down.

"Crumbs?"

"I'll have to change the sheets anyway."

"Ah."

Harold let John ease his robe off before he slipped down onto the bed. A moment later, his towel joining the robe on the floor, John climbed in next to him. They ate. They drank. With the dusky sunlight from the window overlooking the backyard painting the bedroom gold, they curled in together and slept.

 


	12. Chapter 12

John woke to the feel of gentle fingers stroking his hair and down his head to the nape of his neck —lingering for a moment, then brushing over his ear on the way back up to start all over again. The touch was familiar in its sureness and repetition, and for a moment John was transported back to a sun drenched hotel room in Mexico and a time when his world was opento every possibility.

The fingers eased along the crown of his head, circling the unruly whirls of hair before skimming along his scalp, down to his neck, grounding him in reality.

_-Slow it down._

_-Draw it out._

Overnight, he'd ended up with his head on Harold's chest and his arm and leg wrapped across Harold's body. He didn't remember falling asleep in that position but he wasn't complaining; to his mind, in the warm den of sheets and tangled limbs, they fit together perfectly.

"John?" Harold whispered, tracing a calloused thumb along John's tapered hairline, pebbling the sensitive skin in the wake of his slow drag. "I know you're awake."

"Mmm... " John tightened his hold and craned his head forward, offering up more of his exposed neck. "I am. But I don't want you to stop yet."

Harold slid his fingers down the furrow of John's spine. "You like this?"

"I do."

Fingers circling the long healed, but rough scarred, wound: Greer's man, Lambert.

The bullet originally meant for Finch had torn through his Kevlar and forced layers of vest and bullet deep into his skin, cracked two ribs, then stopped. As he fell forward, struggling to cover Finch with his body and make it count, Finch caught him and carted him down to the cold concrete sub-basement floor, and held on tight as the bullets continued to explode around them.

_"It's going to be okay, John."_

In the end, Finch was right. They did not die on the stock-exchange floor and the rough cratered wound was a reminder of all the things they'd survived in order to end up here, curled together in Finch's bed.

Alive.

"What other things do you like?" Finch asked, sweeping over the battle scarred skin.

John groaned, his face going warm. Answers came to his mind quickly – things that had taken him years to discover about himself, things he was sure would shock the prim omega.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he arched into Harold's teasing stroke. "Lots of things," he purred.

"That's hardly an answer, John."

"No?" John grumbled against the soft pillow of Harold's chest.

Circumstances had thrown them together, but he imagined the secretive omega would have preferred to ease himself through his heat alone. All things considered, maybe that would have been better for them both.

"As you know, our particular line of work doesn't really lend itself to close, interpersonal connections."

Harold's voice resonated through his chest and against his scruffy cheek. He resettled his head in the soft thatch of silvering hair and listened for the rest of it.

"My friendship with you is, perhaps, the least complicated relationship I've ever enjoyed," Harold continued. "I'd like to maintain that, if possible. After this heat cycle runs its course."

John's eyes fluttered shut and he exhaled, silently measuring his deflation against the steady _lub-dub_ of Harold's heartbeat. "We'd just go back to the way things were before?"

When the answer finally came, it came soft and halting, just vibrating the skin, barely audible over the thump of his beating heart.

"We could... If... that's what you'd prefer."

Once the heat cycle passed they would return to the work: John out in the field, and Harold and Root working long hours together with the Machine. Eventually he and Harold might ease back into the occasional routine of walking Bear and shared meals, but they would never have _this_ again.

"I liked falling asleep with you," John said after a while. "It's one way to know you're actually getting some rest."

"You sleep like a human octopus. I couldn't have gotten out of this bed if I'd tried."

"Quadropus," John corrected and smiled against Harold's warm body. He shifted himself slightly, unfolding and stretching his body atop the omega, straddling his leg until his heavy cock fit against Harold's. "Quintapus."

"I see." 

"Did you want to get out of bed?"

"No," Harold said as he resumed his explorations of John's earlobe. "Not particularly."

It had to be the rut. Entirely predictable given his long suppressed need and the dense blanket of receptive omega pheromones saturating the air. And the heat of Harold's skin against his. And the intimately familiar sound of Harold's voice, pitched low and close.

"Kissing," John croaked. "I like kissing."

"I'd wondered about that," Harold answered, drawing out the words, dragging a slow finger along the nicked cartilage of John's ear.

"About kissing me?"

"I've never kissed a bearded man."

A weird sting of jealousy cut through John's thoughts. He angled his head on Harold's chest so that he could look up at the older man. "Do you kiss a lot of clean shaven men?"

Harold snorted, scoffing at the suggestion. "Not for a long time now."

John was moving before he even realized it, uncoiling and pushing himself up along Harold's body until he hovered above him. Harold's bare eyes widened in alarm and he tried to deflect, but it was too late. With a single-minded focus, John dipped his head, capturing the omega's surprised _Oh!_ against his lips.

Morning breath be damned, all John tasted was Harold's warm, earthy essence.

A desperate need sparked low in his belly as Harold's gasp dissolved into a muffled groan, followed by the warm glide of his hands along John's arms, fingers pressed hard against his ribs, holding him in place. John pressed his advantage, nudging his tongue along the seam of Harold's lips until Harold parted them. And then his legs.

Even if Harold decided that they would go back to the old standard, John had had _this_.

His heart beat fiercely as he rocked his hips against Harold's, wedging the omega's awkwardly outstretched legs wider as he slid in between. The beginnings of Harold's slick flowed damp and sticky over his thighs and John shifted until he had just enough room to ease the tip of his cock into Harold's wet omega pussy.

They were a good fit, despite all of Harold's objections. And better together, in real-life, than anything John had imagined on his own.

"You okay?" he asked, the words muffled against Harold's lips.

Harold answered with a hard nip to his lower lip and John growled in response, adding to the din of their mingled groans of pleasure. The drag of skin-on-skin, jumbled with the heady heat musk was even better the second time around.

He rutted against Harold, sinking the flared tip of his cock inside the wet omega and out again in time with his insistent tongue as he plumbed the velvet heat of Harold's mouth. He felt Harold squirming underneath him and, instinctively, John dropped a firm hand to the omega's hip to keep him in place.

His alpha lusts, inflamed by the tantalizing tease of dipping himself in and out of the omega's heat, demanded more. He hooked his hand under a soft thigh and firmly shifted Harold's leg wide. In an instant, the omega's trimmed fingernails cut into John's skin and his delicious, fevered moans morphed into an anguished gasp of pain.

"What!" John cried as he pulled off and rolled to his side.

Harold's face had gone pale and his lips were compressed in a tight line as he waved off the question. John watched helplessly as Harold grit his teeth and cautiously inched his legs over the mattress until he'd drawn them closed.

"Did I hurt you?"

"It's nothing," Harold breathed and dropped his hand to his hip. "I just..." His voice trailed off for a moment then he closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the pillow with a loud sigh. "I wasn't prepared."

"Here?" John asked, his heart still racing, but for an entirely different reason now as he slid a cautious hand under Harold's to cover the knot-scarred skin. "Did I hurt you?"

"Please," Harold groaned, swatting at John's hand. "Just stop!"

"A little too late for that," John said as he conducted his own examination. The scent of Harold's agitationfilled the air, derailing the primal drive to mount and mate his omega, and replacing it with another, equally ancient urge. Even without the ties of a formal mating bond, John acted on instinct.

He leaned in close, draping his body lightly over Harold, flooding the omega with his scent as he set about massaging the joint. As he soothed the tight flexor muscle, Harold shifted beneath him and buried his nose in the warm crook of John's neck.

The thrum of his blood rushing against his eardrums drowned out the loudest of John's self-sabotaging thoughts. His mind was clear. He was keenly aware of the tickle of Harold's nose against his skin, the inviting heat of the omega's thighs, and the pounding beat of his heart –echoing John's own.

"It's okay, Finch," John whispered. He swept a slow hand over the long, dimpled scar curving from high on Harold's right hip and down to mid thigh. "Tell me what we're working with."

"An old cripple, Mr. Reese," Harold muttered, frustration clear in his voice.

"That makes two of us," John murmured, deepening the pressure of his touch until he felt the rough mended anatomy beneath Harold's skin. "So how do we work around that?"

"There's no working around it!" Harold snapped as he tried dislodging John's hand again. "I'm long past my prime and I'm no good to you as an omega."

John caught Harold's fingers in his and squeezed, stilling his frantic, but ineffectual, protests.

"You deserve so much better, Mr. Reese."

"I know what I deserve, Finch." John twined his fingers into his and followed the words with a gentle kiss to the side of Harold's head. "And I know I'm already over my limit."

Harold let out a strained whimper and dropped his forehead to John's neck. "Just get on with it. Let me roll over."

"In a minute," John said, his lips brushing over Harold's hair. "Yesterday you said you wanted to see."

"I obviously over estimated my abilities."

"Heat or not, I think you know exactly what you're capable of."

"What?"

"Work with me, Finch."

John pushed himself up and snagged three pillows from the headboard before crawling backward over the mattress. "And tell me when to stop." He nudged Harold to bend his right knee then carefully positioned one of the pillows under his leg.

Up on his knees, his cock bouncing against Harold's leg, John scooted in close and cupped his hands under Harold's hips. With a firm grip, he guided Harold through a careful series of rolls and lifts as he slipped the other pillows beneath him. They worked together to arrange the cushions for maximum support and when they were finished, Harold's plump body lay displayed for his pleasure.

"Look at you," John whispered as he slid down onto the mattress.

"Please don't," Harold said quietly, his eyes falling away.

John dropped his hand to Harold's knee and began brushing a path upward. A pink flush crept over the omega's exposed skin in the wash of his slow touch and John inhaled the scent of his arousal. This was the difference between a natural and induced heat, John thought, dragging his fingers along Harold's inner thigh until the tips brushed against the damp, silvered curls shielding his glistening prize.

"Open your eyes, Finch," John whispered as he dipped his finger into Harold's wetness. "Look at me."

"Please. Just..."

"Look at me, Finch," John repeated. Harold lay passively beneath him, but his bare face was screwed tight.

"So stubborn," John murmured as he ran his fingers through the slick furrow. This isn't a hardship for me, you know. I want you to feel good."

"And I do, but..."

"No buts. No clamming up on me," John said before brushing a soft kiss across Harold's knitted brow. The creases deepened, eyes still resolutely closed despite the shift in his breathing. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Of course I don't," Harold answered tightly.

"That's progress," John murmured, sinking two long fingers deep.

Harold blew a weary sigh. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and just as slowly —tentative and stiff, but with clear intent— angled his hips forward to meet John's touch.

"That's it, Finch," John whispered, with a a soft smile. Harold looked particularly vulnerable now, an awkward reminder to John that neither of them had planned for this moment, but here they were and the best he could do was to try to ease the troubled expression on Harold's face.

He curled his strong fingers inside the omega's heat. Finch's cheeks were flushed with arousal and his lips slightly parted as he let out a stinted gasp of pleasure. John's cock jerked in hard response and he pressed himself closer.

Primal urges fired through his limbic system at breakneck speed. Pin the omega to the ridiculously soft sheets now and mount him. Unsheathed teeth to the neck to keep things civil. Take his right by possession and drive his aching Alpha cock deep inside his reluctant mate. John recalled the tight fit and shuddered with pleasure.

He flicked his tongue over dry lips and tried to refocus his attentions. Yes, he desperately craved getting his knot on, but Finch's needs were more critical. John had seen for himself what could happen to a hormone charged Omega left unfulfilled, and how the biological drive could reduce an omega to something wild, willing to accept _anything_ that would temper their heat frenzy.

 _...7...8...9..._ He set up a slow, deep rhythm with his fingers.

Finch deserved better than that, so John concentrated on his own breathing, on curbing his pressing want, on slowly things down. "You asked what it is that I like," he said, voice pitched low in the close space between them. "I like looking at you."

"I'm nothing to..."

"You have a very watchable face," John went on, talking past Harold's chagrin. "I like touching you," he continued, trying to gentle Harold back to the calm of a few minutes earlier. "Maybe this is one of the things _you_ like too?"

"Possibly," Harold croaked as he gripped the sheets and angled his legs wider.

"Is that a yes? _Yes,_ you do like this?"

Harold's eyes, pupils blown wide, were locked on his face and he felt the tight clench of Harold's body around his probing fingers. John's cock jumped in painful anticipation. Curling in close, he blanketed himself over the gasping omega and pressed his way deeper.

He reveled in the sounds he was able to draw out of Harold. The gasps gave way to ragged breaths, breathy sighs, and eventually, throaty moans that filled the room. The sound of him was almost as pleasing as his smell and feel.

John dropped his head and caressed his lips over the soft paunch of belly, inhaling Harold's scent deeply. Vigorously fingering him, he kissed his way through the silver-flecked chest hair, and up, until he felt Harold's carotid pulse against his lips, and the cleft of his chin, and the warmth of Harold's breath through parted lips. "I can do this all day, if you want me to."

"Yesss..."

John was sure he'd shoot his load right then and there. He was so ready. Instead, he dropped his head to taste his omega's kiss, restraining himself to a slow and gentle pace.

Between the kisses, and his long fingers sunk snug inside the omega, John managed to ask if the pillows were holding up.

Each time, his strong hands grasping John's hip, John's ass, Harold answered _yes_.

John was riding the sharp edge of his need and by the fourth, desperate, _yes_ , he was too far gone to slow down. The protective mat crackled under the cotton sheets beneath them as John found his balance between Harold's legs.

"Who knew you were such a chatty quintapus?" Harold snapped as he dug his fingers into John's thigh.

"A quintapus who wants you in the worst way," John growled. He moved into position, bearing his weight on his hands and knees as he straddled the smaller man. Beneath him, Harold was still touching. His rough fingertips eased along the crease of his thigh and John held himself still as Harold moved closer to his achingly hard cock.

"Then get on with it, Mr. Reese," Harold said, brushing through the pubic hair until he'd circled his fingers around John's heavy cock. "I'm not going anywhere."

And Harold was right. For the next two days their world narrowed to the inside of the odd suburban house with its creaky wood floors and well stocked kitchen, and Harold's bed. On the morning after their seventh mating, because John kept count, Harold lifting a weary hand to his chest and shook his head. The heat had broken.

John had the good grace to give Harold space that morning. He tramped down to the kitchen by himself and cooked a heavy meal of thick pancakes, fried eggs and potatoes, and plump sausages while Harold showered.

Harold came down to breakfast dressed in a clean suit.

Within the hour, John was back in his clothes from three days ago for the long drive back to Riley's apartment in Queens.


	13. Chapter 13

**Harold**

He stood in the open doorway long after John left.

It was mid-afternoon and the street was quiet. Even the family of cardinals, nested high in the backyard, had gone silent. In a few hours the sun would slide across the sky. The bright red cardinal, flitting from branch to branch overhead, would return to his nest, beak full after a long day of caching winter seeds. The empty sidewalks would come to life with the yelps and hoots of boisterous young pups let out from the elementary school down the street. Harold Grebe would be gone.

A light breeze fluttered the bright yellow daffodils lining the walkway.

It had always been a good house, he thought to himself.

Straightening his aching shoulders, Harold stepped out onto the porch and locked the door behind him.

He took the long way back into the city, the drive only forestalling the inevitable. He _would_ see John again. It would be awkward. They would dance around the events of the past few days and there would be questions. Oh, he was much too clever to come right out and ask; he'd feint and swing at them, armed with hot tea and fresh pastries, small talk, and his damnably disarming eyelashes. _How do you feel, Finch? Did you enjoy yourself?_

John was mission driven and steady, all good traits for saving the world — _for saving his life more times than he liked to remember,_ so of course, he'd stayed — _knotted him._ John had a hero complex a mile wide, and _he'd_ let himself be caught out in heat, like some sort of damsel in distress served up on a goddamned platter!

This was bad.

Not the knotting, he thought, still tender beneath the layers of bespoke attire. Fucking John had been exceedingly good. — _I did, Mr. Reese, very much. Perhaps we can do it again? Soon?—_ But having John obliged to him because of a fluke of biology and a dammed poor stroke of system malfunction, this was extraordinarily bad.

And so it went, as was his process. Mile after mile, a cascade of iterative thoughts, each one incrementally worse than the one before until he'd imagineered himself onto the high branches where the only way out was to take flight.

_Stop, Harold!_

His inner voice, usually quite reasonable, be damned right now! They couldn't go on saving the world forever, could they?

_Harold? What's the real problem?_

Convincing Mr. Reese that he would be better off with someone else in the long run. Obviously.

The Machine had new contingency plans. Root would be ready to take over the operation soon, and Miss Shaw was already handling the bulk of numbers. When the time came, Mr. Reese deserved a chance at happiness. He could at least offer him that.

_You're getting ahead of yourself, Harold. Start at the beginning._

He inhaled and peeled his tight curled fingers from the steering wheel. The traffic had picked up since he'd started his trip and as he approached the portal to the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel, his drive slowed to a crawl. He glanced down at the dashboard clock; it would be another half hour at least before he made it to Midtown.

Absently, he wondered where Mr. Reese was. Perhaps he'd retired to that dingy little apartment he kept in Queens? Or, because honestly it was laughable to think that John could have been satisfied in any way by the past few days, had he returned to whatever omega he'd been with at the start of this lamentable episode. Not that it was any of his business. Or concern.

_What will you say to Mr. Reese when you see him again?_

Harold exhaled loudly and dropped his head back against the rest. Caught up in the fog of heat he'd already told John the truth. While the circumstances were less than ideal, and in some respects, categorically barbaric, he had no regrets about the outcome. He _had_ enjoyed himself.

The memory flared through his body, warming his skin and face. After so many years deprived, he'd enjoyed being touched. John had been very thorough in that respect. It didn't take much to recall the feel of the alpha's hands running over the most sensitive parts of his body, or his own shameless reaction.

He gripped the wheel again and ground himself down into the molded leather seat.

Past experience had conditioned him to expect the worst from a rutting alpha. Yet, insomuch as could be expected, John had been surprisingly patient with him. The simple act of asking whether he'd wanted him to stay -despite there being no question of John's leaving by that point- had gone a great length towards allaying some of his humiliation at being caught so unawares.

How had he forgotten the tracker implanted frames, he berated himself. How had he let Reese get that close to him? He should have been more forceful in discouraging the man and never let him into the house.

_You wanted to let him in, Harold._

Not if he'd been in his right mind. He'd gotten through heats on his own in the past but this time he'd been compromised, he thought. He'd... indulged.

_And you'd like another taste._

It had been a reckless indulgence. Despite all of his sweet words, John had been caught up in the same hormonal haze as himself. Once that wore off, and he saw with clear eyes how little Harold could offer him, John would realize his mistake. And that, as they said, would be that.

So that's what he would say: Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Reese. I appreciate everything you did, and I've taken steps to insure neither of us finds ourselves in such an unbecoming situation again.

He played with the wording, practicing it out loud in order to infuse the short speech with the necessary blend of firmness and finality. The voice of doubt that often nagged the darker edges of his mind went silent and he took that as further proof that he was making the best choice. Convinced for the moment, Harold shifted his attention to the next problem. _Why had he gone into heat?_

Observations: It had come on quickly, possibly set off by little Eddie. Which made no sense —suppressants would be useless if a single point of failure, like looking after a pup for a few hours, rendered them useless.

New hypothesis: The unexpected heat cycle was the end result of a long term failure. He was on Anestruszine. He wasn't due for his next shot for another five months, and yet he'd gone into heat, and that... that was very bad.

_But solvable._

Bad, but solvable. Right. Obviously the suppressant had failed. Why? Testing the hypothesis would require medical expertise which was beyond his skill set.

He quickly scrolled through his mental inventory of human assets, filtering the list to the half dozen or so doctors he employed to manage his own health and attend to the team. Not a single androgynologist in the lot, but he was already refining the list and after quantifying his options, made a choice. Harold dialed the office number from memory and made an appointment.

_Done._


	14. Chapter 14

**Harold**

Dr. Meghan Tillman broke off her conversation with her reception nurse when Harold walked into the office. "Well, this is a surprise," she said, pushing off the desk to greet him with a wide smile. "I've seen John and the rest of your crew, but I was starting to think _you'd_ forgotten about us." She gave him a discreet once-over. "Is everything alright?"

He accepted her outstretched hand, returning her smile. "Nothing life threatening this time, I'm glad to report. And my apologies, I've been remiss." Smile fixed in place, he continued on. "If it's alright with you, Dr. Tillman, perhaps we could get started?"

"Let's." She took a moment to pick up his medical chart then waved him to follow her. "Jeff," she said, addressing her nurse, "call Dr. Jacoby if any walk-ins come through, okay?"

"Sure thing, doc," the young nurse answered, his fingers tapping at his computer, already blocking out her calendar for the rest of the day.

The clinic had a light antiseptic smell that intensified when he stepped through the privacy door. Harold followed her through the back hall, appreciating the many upgrades to the office since his last visit.

"He's new," he said when they finally came to a stop at the beam scale set at the end of the hall.

"Thanks to a mysterious benefactor," she teased as she calibrated the weights, "Farouk and I were able to bring on a third nurse and two new doctors. You're out of the loop Harold."

"And Dr. Enright?" Harold asked, making no moves to prepare to step on the scales.

"Maddie still keeps her weekly surgical consults. Even without our repeat customers, we're getting along," Tillman said, leveling him a pointed look.

"Surely you won't begrudge me and my friends for getting better at our jobs? It's been over a year without any of us needing major surgery. That might be a workplace record, Doctor."

"Do I even want to know more?"

"Probably best you don't."

She shook her head lightly, slipping back into her role as lead team general physician. "Should I assume you didn't make this appointment to get your physical out of the way?"

"Today I have an issue of a more personal nature."

"I'm your doctor, Harold. They're all personal issues."

Harold winced, unsure of how to proceed for a moment. "Right, but this one..."

"Okay," she said slowly. "Let's go inside and talk."

"Let's."

She led him around the corner to an open room and gestured for him to take a seat on the examination table and after an awkward start, he soon laid out his problem.

"You went into unplanned heat?"

"Catastrophically. But as I said, my primary concern today is the issue of the suppressant: why it failed and how can I prevent it happening again."

"Understood." She flipped through the pages of his chart, a small frown marring her face. "I've been treating you for pain management and emergency services." She closed his chart and held it up. "There's nothing about your reproductive health in here. I can't just throw you on a new suppressant without doing a full work-up."

"I can provide you with the necessary paperwork, doctor."

"Great, and we'll update that with a full work-up." Her face set in stern lines, Dr. Tillman clicked her pen open and turned to an empty page toward the back of his medical chart. "When was your last heat cycle prior to this?"

"Full heat? 2010."

"Any contact with an alpha partner since then?"

"No. Not until this most recent episode."

She scribbled a short note before glancing up. "Harold, you said it was a catastrophic failure," she prodded gently, holding his eyes. "Do you need a trauma exam?"

Harold tipped his head, his brow knit in confusion.

"Did you pass this recent heat on your own or..."

It took a moment for the implication to make itself known. Harold shook his head in vigorous denial. "No! Nothing... like that. It was... it was a non-violent encounter."

From his seat he could see the tension drain from her body as she nodded and made a few more notes. "Did you know your partner?"

"Yes."

"How well?"

"Doctor..."

"Do I need to test for STIs?"

The possibility hadn't occurred to him until now. John would have said _something_ , he assumed.

"I'll take that as a yes, just to be on the safe side. Okay, what about tearing or bleeding, anything out of the norm?"

"No. It was all... very normal," he answered, feeling his cheeks go warm.

"Who's your OB/AGYN? They'll want a copy of your pain management history so we can move forward to the next steps."

"I don't mean to be a bother, but I was really hoping to leave here today with a booster shot of some sort. You'll understand that I can't get back to my business in this condition and a booster would solve my immediate problem. Then we can follow up correcting my dosage."

"If only medicine were that easy, Harold," she said, clicking her pen closed. "Aneustrazine has been off the market for almost a year now."

"What?!"

She eyed him keenly for a moment. "The manufacturer revised their outlooks statement when it came out that, with long term use, the drug has a greater failure rate than they originally reported. It was a pretty big scandal at the time."

He had, admittedly, been occupied with more pressing concerns for the past year or so.

"Harold," she pressed when he made no comment, "who's been treating you?"

The intricacies of maintaining over a dozen distinct cover identities was a formidable challenge. Harold Wren used to have a doctor. In the aftermath of the ferry bombing and the following months of discreet surgeries and rehabilitation, Norman H. Burdett suddenly found himself in need of a doctor. Samaritan had put an end to that arrangement.

Harold smiled. "At the moment, Dr. Tillman, you."

Her eyebrow shot up as she fixed him with an incredulous look. "When was the last time you saw an OB/AGYN?"

"Nearly three years?" he admitted sheepishly. "My life got somewhat complicated around that time."

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it tightly and blew a defeated sigh. "Well," she opened his chart again and started taking more notes. "I recommend we get started today with a blood test, we need to see how much Aneustrazine you still have in your system. I'll also start vetting specialists for you. Do you have a preference?"

"A beta, other than that, I'm not particular about the gender." He cleared his throat lightly. "I trust you fully understand my need for privacy in this?"

"I do," she answered with a small shake of her head. "I want you to come back in two weeks for a full physical. That will give you some time to recuperate and give me time to put together a list. We'll have the test results back too so we can start planning a course of treatment with one of the newer drugs out there, or surgical options."

"Let's take surgical options off the table."

"There's a chance you've already exhausted your drug options, Harold."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, your body may have developed an immunity to Aneustrazine and the entire class of progestin based suppressants."

Harold blanched. "But that can be reversed, surely?"

"You have to remember, medicine hasn't caught up to the Omega Rights movement. We're still figuring out how to push the pause button on millions of years of evolution. At your age, a glandectomy and hysterectomy may be the best options. Very routine, 100% effective."

"Oh."

Tillman reached over to cover his hand with hers and gave him a reassuring smile. "We'll start with the blood draw and then we'll see where we're at, okay?"

Harold waited until she'd stepped out of the room before he panicked. His fear of hospitals, already well established then, had only intensified in the aftermath of the ferry bombing. The idea of surgery, no matter how routine, had no appeal.

No, he decided as he pulled out of his jacket and undid his left cuff to roll the sleeve back, surgery was out of the question, as was living life as an outted Omega.

Harold Crane had never needed an OB/AGYN, but he was well positioned to throw some money into suppressant drug research if it came to it, and Harold Finch could take a sabbatical from the work.

_From John?_

John would understand.

"I'm back," Tillman said, pushing through the door with a small cart topped with her blood draw kit and collection tubes. She handed him a small paper cup containing two white pills and another filled with water.

"What's this?" he asked, rattling the pills.

"Emergency contraception. This was an irregular heat cycle, and there is the age factor, so the chances of conception are slim, but better safe than sorry."

"I'm not worried about accidental pregnancy, Doctor. I'm nearly 62 years old." He glanced down at the pills. "How slim a chance?"

She shrugged as she prepped the first needle. "Remote, maybe three, five percent? Why?"

He watched her rip open the alcohol pad and sidestepped her question. "The odds of me going into heat _given the age factor,_ " he said, arching his brow, "were remote too."

"No offense intended," she said gently, acknowledging her misstep. "I try to be straightforward with my patients. The odds of fertilization decline with age. That's not to say there aren't sexagenarians out there right now carrying a brood of pups; it happens, but it's rare."

"No offense taken, doctor. I'm just feeling particularly out of sorts, I suppose."

"It's the hormones," she answered, swabbing his arm. "I'll get you something to take the edge off."

Harold turned his eyes away as the needle approached. "Do you have anything for chaffing? -Ow!"

"Shhh," she whispered, running her gloved fingers over the injection site. "That was the worst of it. And yes, a tube of soothing ointment should do the trick."

Slowly, his blood filled the slender plastic tube. He grimaced, crushing the pill cup in his palm. Tillman replaced the collection tube with another once it was full, then another, and Harold felt lightheaded. Surreptitiously, he slipped the pills into his vest pocket and reached for the cup of water.

"All done," she said after a few minutes, deftly extracting the needle and covering the tiny prick with a sterile pad. "That wasn't so bad."

"Not at all," he answered weakly. He swallowed down the cool water in one long draw.

"I'll send these off to the lab and we'll be good to go at our next appointment."

"A blood test could also ascertain if I'm carrying or not?"

"It would, but not with this sample. You'd have to wait a week or so to get accurate results," she answered, labeling his samples.

"So you could run a test when I come back for my follow-up?"

Tillman looked up from the cart with a puzzled expression. "Sure. I can get another sample and run a pregnancy test. The chance of pregnancy decreases sharply after age 45, but without surgical sterilization, omegas always have a slim chance of becoming pregnant."

"I suppose I should thank my cave-dwelling ancestors for that legacy."

"And thank goodness. For ancient hunter-gatherer societies, a population of super-fertile omegas would mean the difference between life or death for the tribe during a lean year. Anyway, I wouldn't advise waiting. The levonorgestrel will take care of everything, clean and painless."

Harold nodded, feeling a bit chagrined by the turn the visit had taken. He stepped off the exam table and reached for his jacket. While he was inclined to agree with the doctor that the chances were remote, the very idea that there was a chance at all frightened him. That would be the worst scenario of all.

He ran his hand over the slight bulge in the line of his vest. He slipped his jacket on. The levonorgestrel could take care of everything, but he wanted to _know_ before he made a decision of that magnitude. "I'd like to schedule the test anyway. And.... I suppose I'm open to all of my options moving forward: medical and surgical."

 

 

___

 

**John**

Everything hurt and he couldn't be happier.

Returning to Riley's crap apartment, John headed straight to his bedroom and stripped. The dark fibers of his suit had long since released Jiro's manufactured aroma. In its place, it seemed to him, was the still pungent and mingled scents of his body on Harold's. It was almost a shame to get it cleaned, he thought as he closed the hamper lid. It might be a while before he could have Harold like that again.

Naked, he retrieved his first aid kit from the closet then washed his hands before setting himself up for a post mission check. He stood in front of the full length mirror tacked to the back of the door and took inventory.

He was in dire need of a shave now, he noted wryly as he ran the back of his hand over his jaw. The week-long growth had already filled in and was taking a firm hold over his chin and cheeks. He brushed a finger over the reddened corner of his lower lip and grinned as he flicked his tongue over the small wound.

Harold had spared his neck for the most part, in favor of his chest and shoulders. Honest-to-god, deep purple hickies were scattered all over his body. His grin grew wider as he marveled at the collection. Harold had been surprisingly rough.

John shifted on his toes as he traced the constellation of dark bruises and raised scratches.

The man had an iron will, a fact that John was well acquainted with, but he would have never guessed that it carried over into the bedroom. Still, there was no denying the evidence of the dark bruises tattooing his arms and ribs and hips in clusters of four, off set with by a single, slightly larger spot that completed the set —Harold's hands on his body.

He started with the bites and scratches, daubing them with alcohol and following up with a slick of antiseptic. He'd hold off shaving for now to let his bottom lip heal, he thought, swiping the balm over the nipped skin.

Despite the low level muscle pain, there was nothing he could do about the multitude of small bruises scattered all over his body, so he moved ahead in his check, and lower. His cock bore the brunt of the last three days. It hung nestled in against the dark bush of hair, pink and tender from friction burn. Gently, he closed his fingers around himself, recalling the tight fit inside of Harold.

He felt his cheeks go warm. It had been everything he'd thought it would be and more.

Somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the overriding rule of Harold Finch. The man's secrets were deep. Like the hand-stitching of a master tailor, Harold Finch was a man constructed of secrets layered atop secrets.

He'd seen for himself the lengths Finch would go to in order to protect one of his secrets, like pushing Grace Hendricks out of his life.

Somewhere along the way, John had made the mistake of thinking he'd cleared all the important secrets, laying the ground for a working relationship based on mutual trust.

He thought he knew Harold Finch and that had been a mistake. Secret omega Finch was a mindfuck on a whole different level and John didn't know how he felt about that yet.

He jerked his hand away in frustration and leaned over to pluck the aloe lotion from the kit. Coating his sore cock and balls with the cooling gel, he plotted his next course of action.

 


End file.
